


The Redemption of Maferath

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Child Neglect, Class Differences, Class Issues, Fantastic Racism, Grey Wardens, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mages and Templars, Multi, Orlesians, Politics, Soldiers, Suicidal Thoughts, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:49:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7912288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not since Maferath, betrayer-husband of Andraste, has a single man been held in such contempt as the war criminal Thom Rainier.</p><p>Not since Maferath has a single man held the fate of the world in the palm of his hand.</p><p>Now as Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, Thom must struggle to unite disparate allies and find a moral path through the wars and chaos which beset southern Thedas.</p><p>If Andraste could forgive Maferath, maybe She can find a little grace for Thom too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Temple of Sacred Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. This is what happens when I imagine Blackwall as the Inquisitor. Containing various AUs of my Wardens and Hawke. Trigger warning for death, violence, suicidal thoughts, fantastic racism and mentions of the deaths of minors and war crimes.

 

In another life, Thom Rainier might have taken a twisted pride in the extreme precautions used to hold him in the cells beneath Haven’s Chantry. The heavy cuffs attached to a wide strip of the same cold dark iron, the six Fereldan soldiers stationed around him with swords pointed at his kneeling form. But that Rainier was dead, left on the shores of the Storm Coast with the body of a good man whose memory he’d tried to live up to, and now only a battered weary fraud awaited the judgment of the Right and Left Hands of the Divine.

            Thom looked down at the poisonous green-black mark on his left hand, grunting at the pain which lanced with every spark. If only he could remember what happened! He would try to explain, try to find the murderer of the Divine, gladly sacrifice his life for the sake of justice.

            The door opened and the familiar silhouette of Cassandra Pentaghast was limned by the torchlight. She strode forward, athletically graceful as only a born swordswoman could be, strong, scarred features twisted in disgust as the soldiers sheathed their weapons. In one fluid motion, she drew her silverite blade and placed its edge at Thom’s bearded throat.

            “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you this instant,” she demanded in that Nevarran-accented voice.

            In another life, Thom would have wanted to seduce the handsome woman and boast about the conquest. Now, he wondered if she’d be the one to end his miserable existence.

            “Everyone is dead! The Conclave. Most Holy! All dead but for you!”

            Thom looked up at her grief-stricken face and bowed his shoulders. “I can give you no reason to keep me alive, Lady Pentaghast. I just wish I could give you answers.”

            “What do you mean you can’t give me answers? Explain this!” She grabbed the marked hand.

            “I don’t know. I don’t remember!” Denial burst from Thom’s lips.

            “You’re lying!” Cassandra pressed her sword against his throat, the edge splitting his skin. Thom felt blood trickling down his neck and wondered if the Maker would take a sinner to His side.

            “Cassandra, we need the prisoner!” Leliana, the Nightingale, Hero of the Fifth Blight and half a dozen other titles, pushed the Right Hand back. “We must get him to the Breach.”

            “Fine.” Cassandra wiped her weapon with a rag and sheathed it. “Go to the forward camp. We will meet you there.”

            Leliana regarded Thom with sad eyes. “I wish you could give us answers, Warden-Constable-“

            Thom cleared his throat. “I’m not Blackwall. My name’s Thom Rainier. The Warden-Constable of Val Chevin Conscripted me but died later trying to protect me from darkspawn. I… took his name to keep the memory of a good man alive.”

            “Captain Rainier.” Yes, the Left Hand knew who he was, judging by the contempt in her dulcet tones. “I will see you at the forward camp.”

            Cassandra hauled Thom to his feet as the bard exited the dungeon. “You should come and see your handiwork, Rainier.”

            She dragged him outside. The cold blue sky was marred by a vortex of green-black energy that ran from the Temple of Sacred Ashes to the heavens.

            “I didn’t do this,” Thom said weakly. “I swear it. I’m scum, Lady Pentaghast, but even the man I was wouldn’t have done this.”

            “I doubt that greatly,” Cassandra said harshly. “Still, the mark on your hand and the Breach are linked. As one grows bigger, so does the other.”

            Thom looked once more at his hand. “Then take me there, my lady, and let me see what we can do. I will come willingly.”

            “We shall see.” She shoved him through a jeering crowd until they were past the gates, then uncuffed him.

            Like any skilled soldier, Cassandra settled into a ground-eating lope that Thom matched until the pain of his hand brought him to his knees. The Seeker helped him up with a grimace. “The mark is killing you.”

            “So long as I can use it to close that fucking thing, it will be a good death.”

            She snorted sceptically and shoved him along once more.

            Near the centre of the bridge, a bolt of energy blasted the stone structure in half, sending them both tumbling to the frozen brook below. Cassandra was the first to regain her feet, drawing her sword as demons emerged from nowhere. “Stay back!” she ordered.

            Thom would have obeyed except green-black energy boiled at his feet, producing a shade, and he had no choice but to reach for a templar’s abandoned sword and shield nearby. He then lost himself in the familiar dance of steel, driving the shade into oblivion or the Fade as Cassandra executed her opponents with a templar’s holy smite.

            “Drop your weapon!” she commanded on turning around and seeing Thom armed.

            “Yes, my lady.” He lowered the weapons until she sighed.

            “Wait. I may not be able to protect you. You came with me willingly.” Her brown eyes glittered. “Do not make me regret this.”

            “I won’t, my lady,” he vowed.

            Halfway to the forward camp, they found a group of soldiers – and a crossbow-wielding dwarf and bald elven mage – fighting off more demons. The elf, an aquiline man with unexpectedly regal features, grabbed Thom’s marked hand and put it up to the small breach that spewed demons. He groaned in pain as a whip of energy connected them… and then in relief as the rift shut audibly.

            “Ah, it worked as I theorised,” the mage observed. “You closed the rift.”

            “You mean the mark did,” Thom corrected, rubbing his throbbing hand.

            “Good to know. Thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” drawled the dwarf in a Kirkwaller accent, adjusting his gloves.

            “You have the mark. Therefore you are the key to our salvation.” The elf inclined his head. “I am Solas.”

            “Solas is an apostate who came in after the Breach opened,” Cassandra explained as she sheathed her weapon.

            “I am an expert on the Fade and kept the mark from spreading,” the apostate (no Circle mage would wear such simple homespun garments with a wolf-jawbone necklace) confirmed.

            “What he means is he stopped it from killing you while you slept,” the dwarf added wryly. “I’m Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

            He winked at Cassandra, who made a disgusted noise.

            “I’m honoured to meet the most famous author in the Free Marches,” Thom said with a dip of the head. “My name’s Thom Rainier. _Not_ Warden-Constable Blackwall.”

            “Heroic Warden suspected of murdering the Divine is in reality a hardened war criminal who killed children. Now _there’s_ a twist I wasn’t expecting.” Varric cocked his legendary repeating crossbow Bianca.

            Solas’ ginger eyebrow arched but he said nothing beyond, “Seeker, we need to get Rainier to the Breach quickly.”

            “I know. I hope Leliana has made it to the forward camp.” The Seeker looked uncertain and in a moment of clarity, Thom realised that as the Right Hand, she’d essentially been a lone agent and bodyguard, not a leader of men.

            “She’s resourceful, Seeker,” Varric reassured her. “Now let’s go.”

            “Absolutely not! You’ve done enough!”

            “If you haven’t noticed, the Fade is raining demons like a storm in Kirkwall,” Varric retorted.

            “Four soldiers – especially two ranged fighters – are better than two,” Thom growled. “Cassandra, take rearguard. Solas, Varric, you’re on right and left flanks respectively. I’ll take point.”

            The Seeker looked ready to argue the point but Solas and Varric were already arranging themselves as commanded. Thank the Maker for that.

            They fought their way through to the forward camp, a unit that operated flawlessly, and Thom closed the rift that barred their way. Solas had taken samples left behind by various demons – no doubt for later study. He had to admire the elven apostate’s guts for coming into a hostile camp full of templars who liked to cage his kind.

            The gates were opened and Leliana, wearing a magnificent dragonthorn bow, was arguing with a robed male cleric. On seeing Thom leading in the others, he snapped orders for the soldier to be chained and taken to Val Royeaux.

            “We need Rainier up at the Breach,” Cassandra said flatly. “He stays.”

            “The situation is lost,” the cleric protested.

            “He’s closed two rifts so far,” Varric observed. “Let’s give him a chance.”

            “I am Chancellor of the Chantry!”

            _Lovely, another jumped-up bureaucrat arguing about protocol at the end of the world._ “What about the Breach? I don’t know what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes but we need to close that fucking thing before it swallows us all.”

            “Precisely.” Despite the dire situation, Cassandra regarded Thom with approval. “Leliana, gather all the soldiers you can find. We need them and Commander Cullen to cut us a path to the temple.”

            “We lost some scouts in the pass,” the Left Hand reported. “If we take that route, we can use the soldiers as a distraction.”

            “We need to return to Val Royeaux and choose another Divine!” the Chancellor declared.

            “Oh, fuck me,” Thom groaned. “Can you make up your minds before this thing kills me and we lose the chance to close the Breach?”

            “So what is your suggestion?” Solas asked quietly. “ _You_ have the mark and are a skilled commander.”

            Thom swallowed, calculating the potential losses on each side. Then he nodded curtly. “We charge.”

            “Good.” Cassandra began to issue orders as the Chancellor fumed.

            “On your head be it, Seeker Pentaghast!”

            “Odious little man, isn’t he?” Thom observed as they walked towards the gates.

            “Chancellor Roderick is unused to thinking for himself,” Cassandra said tartly. “He relies on dogma and protocol when faith and action are required.”

            “Such men have always existed,” Solas murmured. “They have their echoes in the Fade – spirits of order, obedience and routine.”

            “And here I thought the Fade was nothing but raw chaos,” Varric quipped dryly.

            Thom rubbed his head. Maker, he hoped closing the Breach killed him.

            Commander Cullen was a heavy-shouldered templar with golden leonine good looks and the eyes of a man who’d seen too much. “This is-“

            “Thom Rainier,” Cassandra interrupted. “He confessed his true name to us.”

            “Ah.” Cullen studied Thom appraisingly. “We’ve already lost good men and we’ll lose even more on a charge. I hope you’re worth it.”

            The soldier raised his marked hand. “I’m not but this is.”

            “Understood. Andraste and the Maker have mercy on us all.”

            The commander knew his work and his soldiers cut down the various demons boiling from the Fade until Thom could close the rift himself. He fell to his knees, panting heavily, as Solas placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

            “You are becoming quite proficient at this,” the elf said.

            “Here’s to hoping it works on the big one then,” Varric muttered.

            Eventually they reached the burned ruins of the Temple, where the charred corpses of the dead knelt in silent horror. Thom felt the gorge rise in his throat. Had he done this?

            “Here was where our soldiers found you,” Cassandra said softly. “They say a woman guided you from the Fade.”

            “I wish I could remember,” Thom sighed.

            “Don’t we all.”

            They skirted the edge of the crater, hearing ghostly voices speaking of victory and sacrifice, the Divine begging for help… and Thom answering that call with, “What’s going on here?”

            “The Divine… called to you for help,” Cassandra breathed.

            Any further speculation was cut short by the appearance of a blood-red crystal that glowed with malevolent life. “Don’t touch that!” Varric warned. “It’s red lyrium. It’s evil!”

            _The Tale of the Champion_ blamed many of Kirkwall’s griefs on a strange red idol found by Varric and his friend Isa Hawke.

            “I see it, Varric,” Cassandra confirmed. “Everyone, be careful.”

            Thom was only too happy to avoid the unnatural veins. Its malevolence pulsed through the mark on his hand in time to his heartbeat.

            Once in the crater proper, Solas studied the Breach. “We will need to reopen it.”

            “Which means demons. Wonderful.” Varric wasn’t too happy.

            “Prepare yourselves!” Cassandra ordered. “Rainier, open the Breach!”

            It took the four of them, Leliana and about twenty soldiers to banish several shades and a Pride demon that slunk through the Breach. When it was done, Thom gladly raised his hand and felt the energy surge upwards into the tear in the sky. He felt his life bleed out through the mark.

            Saving the world. It was a better death than he deserved.

            As the green-black tear exploded, Thom threw himself headlong into the darkness. The Maker wouldn’t have him, of course, but hopefully he wouldn’t get lost in the Void. Maybe he could find Blackwall again and apologise for fucking up the chance that the Warden had given him. That would be good.


	2. The Arrival of the Ladies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism, mentions of death, violence, child neglect, war crimes and the deaths of minors. AU Fem!Cousland introduced here.

 

“You know that old saw about saying ‘never again’?” Morna Mac Liath asked as her breath puffed white in the cold mountain air.

            “I have heard many variations of it,” Josephine Montilyet, the former Antivan Ambassador to Her Imperial Majesty’s Court of the Orlesian Empire, observed, little more than bright brown eyes and a beaky nose in a hooded cape of lush otter furs. Used to warmer climes, it was only her faith and drive to leave the world a better place than whence she came that kept her on the winding pilgrim’s path to Haven. “What is the Fereldan version?”

            “’Never swear before the Maker you’ll never do something again because, sure as a mabari shits on your shoes, you’ll be doing it within the next ten years’,” Morna replied dryly.

            The diplomat regarded the Warden’s daughter with a raised eyebrow. “You jest, surely.”

            “My cousin Fergus used to say it all the time.” Even after a decade, her heart ached with grief.

            “I remember his time in Antiva. He was certainly charming in that rustic Fereldan way. If Oriana hadn’t been the sister of a Crow Master, I might just have gotten to know him better – for closer diplomatic ties between our nations, of course.”

            “Of course.” Morna’s hands tightened on the reins. Her horse was a grey Fereldan Forder, rough-coated and tough, while Josephine’s steed was a graceful Taslin Strider of the deepest reddish-brown. Their escort rode non-descript mounts of no particular lineage, their fur-trimmed brown leather armour indicating that the Fereldan nobility had begun to slip the nascent Inquisition some support.

            Josephine sighed. “When Leliana called upon me, I never expected to be faced with such a crisis. Bad enough the Mage-Templar War has ravaged Thedas but the death of the Most Holy at the Conclave has… shattered the balance of power in a way that even I can’t predict at the moment.”

            “It’s no different to a Blight,” Morna said from the pain of long experience. “Find those who will act in their own interests no matter the disaster and manipulate them into working for the greater good. Eliminate those who cannot be swayed. Cherish those who put their duties as nobility above their own ambitions.”

            “Ah, I know. It is the scope of my duties that is a little daunting.” Josephine looked up at the sky. “And yet the Breach may be amongst the least of our problems. Captain Thom Rainier, butcher of the Callier family, is the Herald of Andraste and the only one who can close the rifts.”

            “The comparisons to Maferath are already beginning in Val Royeaux,” Morna agreed sourly. “I don’t envy your job in the least.”

            Whereas Josephine was to be the Inquisition’s Ambassador, Morna’s role was less defined. During the Fifth Blight she’d been assassin, scholar and politician as needed to protect her nephew and Highever’s interests. Then the decade-long rule, reluctantly agreed to by Queen Anora and Prince-Consort Alistair Theirin, as Teyrna-Regent for Oren. Now he was sixteen, fresh from fosterage with Arl Matthias Wulffe, and ready to reign in his own right. Depending on how the royal couple bred (or not – no children after ten years was a bit grim), he might yet sit on the Mabari Throne.

            For his need to appear independent, Morna had gladly agreed to assist the Most Holy in organising the Conclave as a means of departing gracefully from Ferelden’s messy political climate. Now Justinia was dead and a man who’d pretended to be a Grey Warden Morna actually knew and respected was the heart of the Inquisition that had been meant to end the chaos in Thedas after Kirkwall.

            A man who’d been like the bastards who slaughtered most of Castle Cousland on the orders of Howe.

            “Thom Rainier is reportedly repentant, which will help me rehabilitate his image,” Josephine mused.

            “If he’s sincere about it, we can work with that,” Morna observed. “The Canticle of Maferath’s a Dissonant Verse but it certainly provoked quite the scholarly argument at the University of Orlais. Comparisons can certainly be drawn for the better as well for the worse.”

            Josephine had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Thedas’ nobility, social customs and bureaucracy. Morna’s particular specialty was the history, religious, political and magical, of Thedas. Both women were polyglots – Josephine’s Rivaini was superior to Morna’s but the latter could actually pronounce Qunlat thanks to the patient tutelage of Sten during the Fifth Blight. They complemented each other well, as Morna did Leliana when working with her, and despite the dire situation she looked forward to serving with the Antivan.

            “So much for your studying at the University of Orlais,” Josephine said sympathetically.

            “Oh, if we survive this, I’m sure I’ll get an honorary doctorate,” Morna said dryly. “Shame the University of Denerim is too close to Their Majesties for everyone’s comfort.”

            “Forgive me, but sometimes I think you could have crowned a mabari at the Landsmeet and the hound would have done a better job,” Josephine said with a hint of well-bred sarcasm.

            “They _are_ smarter than your average rural noble,” Morna chuckled. “Cu has better table manners than Alistair when he’s gotten into the cheese.”

            The mabari, tucked into a pannier basket, barked approvingly.

            “I suspect some of your bitterness is showing,” Josephine chided gently.

            The scholar-rogue shrugged. “Perhaps.”

            The pilgrim’s road was suddenly cleared down to cobblestone and as they turned a sharp corner, the gates to Haven became clear. Even on a windless cold day like today, the reek of too much humanity crammed into too little space reached Morna’s sensitive nose.

            “Whoever’s in charge of the latrines here needs a kick up the arse,” Morna said bluntly. “One good bout of cholera and the Inquisition could lose half their soldiers.”

            “I am told a Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford is running the military affairs of the Inquisition,” Josephine murmured.

            “Cullen’s competent. It’s probably the civilian camp that’s a mess. I need to find out who’s in charge and have words with them.”

            “Hmm. I know Leliana holds the title of Seneschal for the Inquisition but it may be no bad thing for you to take on the day-to-day concerns,” the Antivan mused. “Or at least find some competent quartermasters and supervise them.”

            “We’ll see.” The gates were pulled open by guards clad in green and ochre-brown uniforms with iron breastplates and helmets. The sword-and-eye symbol of the Inquisition was emblazoned on their tabards.

            As predicted, it was the civilian camp that stank of effluvia and worse things. “Who the hell’s in charge of this place?” Morna asked of the guard who joined them just inside the gates.

            “Not sure. Quartermaster Threnn, maybe?” The soldier shrugged.

            “Andraste’s ashen nether regions,” Morna muttered. “Our work’s certainly going to be cut out for us.”

            “Agreed.” Josephine wrinkled her aquiline nose. “Let us hope Rainier is as repentant as he is reportedly competent.”

…

Thom got his own cabin when everyone else was crammed two, three, four and five to buildings if they ranked enough to qualify for a solid structure. The advisors – Cullen, Leliana and the Ambassador who was reportedly arriving soon – got a shared room in the Chantry’s stone walls, though the Commander preferred to camp with his men. He could respect that – Cullen was nearly as common as Thom had been once and certainly didn’t put on airs now he led an army. Of the advisors, the former templar was also the most phlegmatic about Thom’s past. Leliana wasn’t impressed with him but the training of a bard allowed her to set that distaste aside – or mask it well. Cassandra was still contemptuous but resigned to the fact that he was the fucking Herald of Andraste.

            Between the throbbing of his hand and the temper from taking insults in silence from Marquis DuRellion, a minor noble who claimed Haven as his own through marriage to a Fereldan, Thom had plenty of energy to chop firewood while talking to Varric. The dwarf seemed to think that his past made him more interesting. Thom supposed he was already writing the book.

            Solas had been detached about the revelations of Thom’s past, preferring to instead teach the soldier about the Fade. The man’s theories about the Fade were a little bizarre, maybe even dangerous, but Thom couldn’t say they weren’t educational.

            The clopping of horse’s hooves gave him enough warning to grab a rough homespun towel and wipe his face as two noblewomen, escorted by a squad of Fereldan soldiers and one of the Inquisition gate guards, rode into the military encampment. One was swathed in rich otter furs, an oval tawny face with an Antivan nose and tendrils of black hair the only thing to be seen of her features. The other was wrapped in brown wool trimmed with rabbit fur, fine-boned and large-eyed in the manner of an elf-blood under a fall of ash-blonde hair.

            “Shit just got real,” Varric observed. “The Antivan lady is Josephine Montilyet, our new Ambassador. But, if my informants are correct, the Fereldan is Morna Mac Liath.”

            The name was vaguely familiar. “You speak like I should know her.”

            “In Old Alamarri, her name means ‘Beloved child of the Grey’,” Varric said softly. “Bastard daughter of Warden-Constable Riordan Mac Liath of Jader and an elven Warden, raised by his Cousland cousins until they got slaughtered by Howe. Helped end the civil war in Ferelden, fought at the Battle of Denerim on the roof of Fort Drakon, and stood as Teyrna-Regent for her nephew after the Blight. In short, she’s going to dislike you on principle.”

            “Shit,” Thom breathed. “I thought her name was Cousland.”

            “She dropped the surname after the Landsmeet. One of those political compromise things.” Varric shrugged his broad shoulders. “Better go greet the ladies.”

            “Join me, please. You’re at least twice as charming as me.”

            The dwarf snickered. “It will be my pleasure.”

            By the time they reached the two women, both had dismounted, a mabari jumping out of a basket attached to Morna’s grey horse. The dirt-brown hound trotted fearlessly up to Thom, who gave him a scratch behind the ears. He always did like dogs.

            “Cu approves of him,” Morna murmured to Josephine.

            “You rely on your mabari as a judge of character?” The Antivan sounded gently amused.

            “He’s a better one than some people I could name. Never liked Howe, for instance.”

            “You know, the best Diamondback player I knew was a mabari named Wanderer,” Varric piped up with his most charming grin. “Damn thing fleeced Anders every chance he got.”

            “Cu has a talent for chess,” Morna replied with a slight smile. “I’m guessing by the crossbow and the glorious chest hair, you must be the famous Varric Tethras.”

            “Guilty as charged, my lady.” Varric bowed floridly. “I see my meagre fame has preceded me.”

            “Your books have been translated into ten languages,” Josephine said, lowering her hood to reveal elaborately braided black hair. “Even Qunlat, if Morna isn’t having me on.”

            “The Qunlat translation’s atrocious,” Morna chuckled. “Mostly because the Qunari don’t have words for half the crap your characters pull.”

            Thom was happy to be ignored in favour of Varric while he patted Cu. Both Josephine and Morna were rather attractive ladies, though there was a subtle hardness to the latter that indicated a Blight survivor. Maker’s balls, the child of Grey Wardens and the survivor of a brutal massacre – she was going to kill him when the Breach was permanently closed. Surely.

            “It’s not ‘crap’, Lady Morna, it’s ‘literary licence’,” the author corrected.

            “I look forward to reading the literary licence you’ll take with current events,” Josephine observed with a smile.

            “Oh, it’s going to be a good one. We have the hero – the gentleman giving the mabari the best ear-scratching in the history of Thedas – looking for redemption even as he saves the world. We have the brave Seeker, the mysterious elven apostate, the haunted military commander, the deadly bard, the gracious noble diplomat and the wise scholar – and the cast isn’t even finished. We’ve got an unknown enemy, a world-shaking threat, chaos and turmoil – this promises to be as nearly good as the Chant of Light.”

            “Here’s to hoping the story has a happy ending,” Morna said with a sigh before nodding stiffly to Thom. “Ser Rainier.”

            “I was never knighted, my lady,” Thom rumbled, reluctantly rising to his feet as Cu whined disappointment. “It’s just Thom.”

            “As the Herald of Andraste, you transcend rank yet are bound up in it as a potential figure of spiritual authority,” Josephine noted. “We will need to discuss your past in detail, so it can be presented at its best for the good of the Inquisition. The support of the nobility will be crucial in ending this crisis.”

            _Why not just present them with a box of dog shit and two fingers?_ Thom thought sourly.

            “You can’t pretty up an egotistical arsehole who went on to murder a family for personal gain,” Morna countered severely. “The best we’re going to be able to do is present him as genuinely repentant of his actions.”

            _Ah. Good guard and bad guard._ Thom knew the interrogation and haggling technique very well. “I do sincerely regret my actions, my lady,” he told the Fereldan.

            “What about taking Gordon Blackwall’s name?” Morna folded her arms. “He was a good man. My father and Duncan considered him a close personal friend.”

            “You don’t think I killed him?” Thom asked in some surprise.

            “Gordon Blackwall wouldn’t have been taken down by a half-trained deserter,” Morna replied simply.

            “He took a blow meant for me. I… didn’t want a good man’s memory to die.” There was something about those large blue-grey eyes that penetrated Thom’s defences, few as they were.

            “Your activities as someone who trained local peasantry to fight against bandits and other dangers certainly bears proof of that,” Josephine agreed sweetly. “However, the response from the Grey Wardens should be… interesting.”

            “Brosca would kick his arse from here to the Deep Roads and back again. Dad and Duncan would just beat the shit out of him. Daveth would probably just shrug. I can’t vouch for the rest of the senior Wardens,” Morna observed. “I just want to know why you killed a group of _children_ , Rainier.”

            Shame crawled through Thom’s veins as he met her eyes. “You ever been bone-deep hungry, my lady?”

            “During the Blight and its aftermath, yes.”

            “I grew up with it. Lost my sister to hunger when she was eight. One less mouth to feed, I guess, but I remember Liddy liked blue flowers.” He kept himself from flinching. “Started working a man’s job at twelve. Decided to become a soldier. I should have gone with that old chevalier at the Grand Tourney, made something of myself. But all I thought of was the gold and glory and how I’d never be hungry again.”

            “So no act was too vile for continued survival?” Morna asked neutrally.

            “I was promised a knighthood by a chevalier who wanted to suck up to Gaspard if I dealt with Vincent Callier,” he admitted. “In Orlais, that means you’re never hungry again. You get rights and an estate and people to do your farming for you.”

            “All you had to do was kill some children.”

            “I didn’t know about the kids until I attacked. I’d lied to my soldiers, told them we were doing this for the good of Orlais…” Thom sighed and hung his head in shame. “I didn’t want to leave witnesses. But word got out and I ran. I left my soldiers to take the blame.”

            “At least Howe owned up to his murders,” Morna said disgustedly.

            “Howe was a greedy shit who wanted more than he deserved. Like a lot of petty provincial nobles, really.” Thom didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. “You might be an elf-blooded bastard, my lady, but you had it a thousand times better than me as a child. I’m not proud of my actions. I deserve to hang for them. But don’t you ever compare a starving peasant to a twisted little fuck like Rendon Howe. I betrayed my men. I killed children. But I never did it for the sake of pleasure and petty pride.”

            “You have a point.” Thom nearly fell flat on his arse at Morna’s admission as the Fereldan turned to Josephine. “I’m going to find out who the hell’s in charge of the civilian camp. The place needs to be organised and until we find out where the Chantry stands on this matter, I’ll be superfluous for the most part. I might as well put my logistics training to good use.”

            “Understood. I shall head to the Chantry. I’m sure Leliana has much to tell me.” Josephine curtsied gracefully to Thom. “It will be interesting working with you, Master Rainier.”

            “I’m honoured to meet you,” Thom said with the courtly bow he’d perfected in Orlais.

            Morna offered a begrudging curtsey as Cu bowed. “I’m sure we’ll speak later, Herald of Andraste.”

            “I’m sure,” Thom agreed. “My lady – you need anything for the civilian camp, just ask and Threnn will find it for you.”

            “I will.” The slender noblewoman took her horse and led him to the stables, Josephine allowing a soldier to take her steed.

            “Well, that was politer than I expected,” Varric observed blandly.

            If that was Morna being polite, Thom didn’t want to see her being rude. At least she seemed to be one of the nobles who cared about her duties to the commons.

            Josephine, on the other hand, seemed lovely. He hoped he wouldn’t make her life too hard. The Herald should have been someone like Cassandra, not a baby-killer like himself.

            But he was the only one who could close the rifts. If he was going to redeem himself, he had his work cut out for him.


	3. What is Needful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, and fantastic racism involving minors. I don’t particularly like the rehardening of Leliana (or not) in Inquisition, so her character arc will be very different in this story.

 

Morna leaned against the rough stone wall of a much-improved Haven Chantry and listened to the umpteenth argument between Chancellor Roderick Asignon, one of the many Fereldanais (children of unions between Fereldan and Orlesian couples during the country’s occupation) who sought sanctuary in the Chantry as her own father joined the Grey Wardens, and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. Even Josephine’s legendary peacemaking abilities couldn’t get those two to agree on anything, even that the sky was blue (with a gaping green hole in it). The Inquisition was in something of a precarious legal position in both Ferelden and Orlais – approved of and planned by Divine Justinia V but operating in limbo because the Grand Consensus had never signed off on the organisation. The Right and Left Hands only had so much authority – and to be frank, they were trading off on Justinia’s memory. A new Divine needed to be appointed soon or the Chantry would descend into chaos.

            “How are you coping, Leliana?” she asked the red-eyed bard softly.

            “I grieve. And yet I do what I must to protect the Inquisition.”

            She squeezed her old comrade’s hand. “We are what we are.”

            Leliana was referring to the necessary execution of a traitor to the Inquisition, one who’d cost another agent’s life. Morna, who’d dabbled in assassination herself during the Fifth Blight and trained extensively with Zevran Arainai, understood it had to be done. Leaks in a nascent organisation needed to be removed, ruthlessly if necessary. It didn’t make the act easier.

            “Will I become so hardened that lives become ciphers to me?” The bard’s voice was bitter.

            “Light a candle for Farrier and grieve for the death, but it was needful,” Morna suggested with a sigh. “Maker knows I had to perform more than a few executions during and after the Blight.”

            The arrangement with Master Ignacio in Denerim which whittled down Howe and Loghain’s support in the Landsmeet. The execution of Marjolaine, Leliana’s mentor, who would never stop pursuing her. Purges of Howe’s supporters in Highever and Amaranthine after the Blight.

            “This is different,” Leliana pointed out. “In the old days, you, Zev and I were able to go out and give the target a clean end at our own hands. Now I give orders and the blood is on someone else’s hands.”

            “There’s a difference between a few corrupt nobles and enemies across the lower half of Thedas,” Morna observed, sighing again. “Still, the day you’re comfortable with ordering a death, however needful, you lose a portion of your soul.”

            She studied her hands. “I admit, I prefer Uncle Bryce’s way – ‘you pass the sentence, you damn well swing the sword’. I envy your job about as much as I do Josephine’s, which is to say not at all.”

            Leliana seized on the implied change of topic. “How’s the civilian camp these days?”

            “A little better now I’ve got people emptying the latrine trenches and running a few proper steam tents,” Morna answered with a grimace. “We’re going to need a better base eventually. This place is too indefensible and too bloody crowded.”

            The Nightingale nodded in agreement. “Very much so. Unfortunately, we must quell the Chantry’s dissent and establish a proper support network before anything else. Thankfully, Revered Mother Giselle’s contacted us from Redcliffe.”

            “I figured of the ranking female clerics yet, she’d be one of the more sensible ones. How bad is it in Redcliffe?” Morna knew the region was one of the hotspots in the Mage-Templar War.

            “Bad. Civilians have been displaced and there’s rumours that Arl Teagan himself was forced to flee.”

            _“What?”_ Morna yelped. “What in the name of the Maker and His Bride would force a member of the Uasal Ard from the most impregnable fortress in Ferelden?”

            “I don’t know yet.” Leliana’s expression was troubled. “I was hoping you’d have a clue.”

            “Anora and Alistair are going to have a shit fit, seeing as they allowed the rebel mages to take sanctuary at Redcliffe Village.” As always, Morna couldn’t quite conceal the distasteful twist to her lips whenever she mentioned the royal pair’s names. They united Ferelden with their marriage but Anora’s inability to rein her father in after Ostagar caused a lot of anarchy during the Blight – and Alistair… Well. Morna would admit to some bitterness that the elf-blooded son of Maric got to keep his name while she was stripped of the Cousland one as a ‘compromise’.

            “Indeed. Mother Giselle’s requested to meet the Herald of Andraste at the Crossroads.”

            “He has to go. Like it or not, Rainier’s the face of this Inquisition and Mother Giselle has a lot of soft power in the Chantry, especially in the lower ranks.” Morna nodded deliberately in Roderick’s direction. “We need someone to counter the Chancellor here, someone who understands the spirit of the Chant and not just its letter.”

            “Where did _you_ learn tact and diplomacy?” Leliana chuckled.

            “From a very talented bard, of course.” Morna grinned at her fellow Blight survivor.

            “I _did_ teach you how to dress properly.” Leliana’s powder-blue eyes flicked down to Morna’s feet. “Even if your shoes are still atrocious lumps of fur and leather.”

            “I saved the slippers for the Landsmeet,” Morna drawled wryly. “The Teyrna-Regent of Highever didn’t _dare_ have anything more than a little embroidery on the leather, even when we could afford it.”

            “Embroidered… leather… slippers.” Leliana sounded like Morna had confessed to sacrificing babies to the Great Demony Demon of the Void or some other horrific blasphemy. “When we’re next in Val Royeaux, I’m buying you a proper pair of shoes. Velvet with jewels.”

            “Thanks, but no,” Morna chuckled. “I’m tracking through mud and snow on a regular basis. I’d ruin them.”

            “I love you like a sister but you are so wretchedly _Fereldan_ sometimes,” Leliana sighed. “Josie, please explain to Morna why we need to get her a proper pair of slippers in Val Royeaux.”

            The Ambassador smiled ruefully as Roderick stalked off angrily and Cassandra made her patented disgusted noise. She’d managed to pack an entire wardrobe of the rich satins and silks that Antivans adored in her baggage, the heavily jewelled golden shoulder-chain of her family glowing in the torchlight against the vivid cobalt and goldenrod of House Montilyet. “I gave up long ago, Leli. Morna is a lost cause when it comes to the finer points of fashion.”

            “I am not,” the Fereldan woman retorted. “I simply choose to wear clothing that is sturdy and travels well. If pomp is required, I wear my armour.”

            For the first five years of her Regency in Highever, everyone tightened their belts as the port was improved and the city rebuilt. If it couldn’t be produced locally, Morna didn’t bother buying it. And after that, she chose to remain subdued and frugal in appearance so that she didn’t seem to be abusing the power of her position. An elf-blood walked a fine line, even in relatively egalitarian Ferelden.

            Cassandra’s eyes sharpened in interest. “You have a set of armour?”

            “Fully articulated dragonbone and drakeskin chain-and-brigandine,” Morna confirmed with a slight smile. “I’m rogue-trained, remember?”

            “It’s true,” Leliana added. “I polished some of her skills myself during the Blight.”

            “I actually didn’t know that. Your reputation is of a chatelaine and scholar, not a rogue,” Cassandra admitted.

            “Oh, Leliana’s far better at being a rogue than I am,” Morna told her cheerfully. “Just as Josephine’s a superior diplomat. I was never meant to be more than a minor Bann and trouble-shooter for my Cousland relatives.”

            The Seeker nodded. “Tell me – you have lived through a crisis that threatened the world. How do you think we should handle the situation?”

            Morna sighed, losing her relative good cheer. “I was one of several people who helped save Ferelden, Cassandra. Basically, my job was to help resolve the political problems so that the Wardens could do their job and slay the archdemon. All I can say is that we need to keep Rainier alive, no matter what, because he’s the only one who can shut that damn thing.”

            “But the first attempt nearly killed him,” Josephine noted.

            “Then we need someone who can raise power,” Leliana murmured. “I would support the mages in return for their help in closing the Breach.”

            Cassandra shook her head. “We need the templars to suppress the Breach’s energy so that the Herald can close it.”

            “We’ve been having this same argument for days,” Josephine sighed. “We must assuage the Chantry’s fears and that means Master Rainier must meet with Mother Giselle in Redcliffe.”

            Leliana nodded in agreement. “I will send out scouts. Who will tell the Herald?”

            “Tell me what?”

            Rainier was at the door, smelling of metal, leather and good clean sweat. His padded jacket and breastplate were plain druffalo hide and burnished iron but his shield was good solid steel. No doubt his sheathed sword was of equal or superior quality.

            “We’ve received communication from Mother Giselle of the Chantry. She wants to meet with you in Redcliffe at the Crossroads,” Josephine immediately replied. “We also need to contact Master Dennet, who’s a competent breeder and trainer of horses-“

            “Dennet is to horses what Leliana is to spycraft and you to diplomacy,” Morna corrected. “The Inquisition needs the best and in his field, he _is_ the best.”

            “And if we are to start re-establishing order, the Hinterlands are as good a place as any because the Mage-Templar War has torn them apart,” Josephine finished smoothly.

            Rainier nodded. “Then I’m off to Redcliffe. Do we have any local guides?”

            “We’ve picked up a promising scout named Harding from the region,” Leliana answered.

            “I can also provide you a map drawn from my memory,” Morna offered. Her feelings towards the Herald were decidedly mixed, especially after their discussion about the deaths of the Callier children, but she wouldn’t stint in giving her help. “I’ve travelled extensively in Redcliffe, during and after the Blight.”

            Rainier lifted his bearded chin. “Why can’t you come yourself, my lady?”

            “Because I recently stepped down as Teyrna-Regent of Highever when my nephew Oren came of age,” Morna explained quietly. “My presence in Ferelden could be, ah, politically awkward seeing as there’s no love lost between me and the Theirins.”

            “Speaking of which, Teyrn Oren Cousland has offered to hold a memorial service for Most Holy and the other dead of the Conclave,” Josephine said. “Shall we send a representative?”

            “Of course,” Rainier answered, looking surprised she’d even asked him.

            Morna exchanged glances with Josephine. “I’d suggest one of Cullen’s officers,” the Fereldan said.

            “Knight-Captain Rylen. Or perhaps Ser Belinda Darrow?” Josephine tapped her chin thoughtfully.

            “I’ll leave that in your capable hands, my lady Josephine,” Rainier said with an elegant bow. The man had picked up his graces in Orlais, where they were punctilious about such things.

            “I’ll give you a map and a brief history of each location in Redcliffe within the day,” Morna told him. “Maker knows it will be good to deal with something other than latrines.”

            Rainier’s eyes darkened to blued steel. Even with the longish, poorly trimmed hair and forked beard, the Herald was still a rugged, imposing man. “I didn’t quite learn why you’re here, my lady. I doubt camp hygiene was the reason for your presence.”

            “No, I took charge of that because it was a plague waiting to happen,” Morna replied. “What Leliana is to spycraft, Cullen to warfare and Josephine to diplomacy, I’m to history and scholarship. I also have practical skills in logistics and am a trained chatelaine.”

            “I approached Morna when Most Holy wanted to arrange the Conclave,” Leliana added softly. “It was her knowledge of history that helped end the Fereldan civil war during the Blight. If anything should happen to Josie or I, Morna can step in until our replacements arrive.”

            Rainier grunted. “I suppose the daughter of Wardens would be a talented fighter too.”

            Morna smiled wryly. “I’m rogue-trained and can hold my own in combat if need be. But that was always second place to my training as an advisor and trouble-shooter for my relatives.”

            “I want you to come to Redcliffe,” Rainier finally said. “Now the camp’s sorted out, Threnn and Adan can make sure things run smoothly. But whatever map and report you give me will be worse than actually having you there.”

            She drew herself up, regarding the taller man. “What part of ‘politically awkward’ did you miss, Master Rainier?”

            “The part where I don’t give a fuck about a few nobles’ hurt feelings,” he replied acidly. “I’m not expecting you to bash demons in the head with a shield. But if what I’ve heard from the people in the camp is true, the situation in Redcliffe is as bad or worse than the mess Haven was in. You’ve got experience in helping organise relief efforts. If the Theirins object-“

            “I will make it clear that Morna is there in her capacity as an agent of the Inquisition,” Josephine finished calmly. “By the time the Redcliffe situation is resolved, the Chantry should be ready to be addressed.”

            “I assume that I will be going with you.” Cassandra made it an order, not a question.

            Rainier nodded. “You, me, Varric and Solas. We work well together and the Dreamer thinks that there’s elven artefacts in the Hinterlands that will strengthen the Fade against rifts.”

            “Very well. When are we leaving?”

            “Day after tomorrow. Gives Leliana enough time to send a few ravens and get a reply.”

            “Understood.” Cassandra nodded curtly and left the Chantry.

            Rainier regarded Morna coolly. “Do you need an attendant, my lady?”

            She bared her teeth in something that couldn’t be called a smile. “I won’t be wearing silks, Master Rainier, so you needn’t worry about my ability to cope with a hard ride. I’ve traipsed across the length and breadth of Ferelden several times over the past decade.”

            “I set a hard pace, my lady.” For some reason, he insisted on calling her that, and it seemed almost mocking.

            “Darkspawn set a harder one.” Morna curtsied coldly. “I will see you the day after tomorrow, Master Rainier.”


	4. The Journey to Redcliffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, war crimes, class issues and fantastic racism.

 

Thom had momentarily forgotten that Morna Mac Liath hadn’t just survived a Blight, she’d actively fought darkspawn and traitor alike. The elf-blood woman looked like one of the nobility’s superior servants in her fine wool and furs, carrying herself with quiet authority and competence. But she spoke to Josephine and Leliana as equals before regarding him with those icy judgmental eyes.

            Varric had given him some more information on the woman, information that made Thom torn between admiring what she’d done and hating her for the unconscious arrogance she displayed. In the Free Marches, Morna would have serving as a maid or maybe even the housekeeper of a minor noble house, not looking down that aristocratic nose at him like he was the shit beneath her shoes.

            In Ferelden, she’d been a power of sorts and now held herself as equal to the inner circle of the Inquisition. Just because of an accident of birth. He was scum, he’d admit, but he’d never held himself as better than anyone else. Dragging her to Redcliffe had been his way of bringing her into the mud and muck like everyone else.

            Josephine was lovely, tactful and kind, soothing away the raw edges of the inner circle’s contempt for him. She treated him with respect and genuine courtesy.

            Morna, on the other hand, treated him with courtesy that was ice-cold and laced with acid. Oh, she was honest in offering her help. But she made no bones about the fact she didn’t much care for him. He called her ‘my lady’ with the same sarcastic tone as she bestowed upon ‘Master Rainier’.

            He’d forgotten that she was used to hard travel. Her Fereldan Forder was of excellent breeding and the brigandine armour she wore, the deep blue called Cousland Blue, was worth a decade’s pay for a common soldier. It was well-worn though, he granted, and he remembered that Varric said that for a noblewoman she was remarkably frugal.

            It was a week’s ride to Redcliffe and from the West Hills, Thom could see the fires burning in the Hinterlands.

            “Those fucking bastards.” It was Morna who spoke grimly. He had to grant that the woman could swear like a soldier.

            “The mages are out of control,” Cassandra agreed.

            “I’m fairly certain the templars also have their parts to play,” Solas observed dryly.

            “And Arl Teagan’s abandoned his Arling. If I had a voice in the Landsmeet, I’d-“ Morna bit off the comment.

            “Let’s go. If we can sort out some of this shit, things can only get better for the locals.” Varric guided his small Avvar pony down the path.

            “What would you do if you still had a voice in the Landsmeet, my lady?” Thom asked of Morna as they rode down into the valley.

            “I’d chew him out for failing in his duty as a member of the Uasal Ard, the High Nobility of Ferelden,” Morna answered softly. “He was supposed to stay here and protect his people no matter what, not leave them to the mercy of renegades and demons.”

            Thom grunted. He had to grant that she, like Josephine, was one of the nobles who gave a shit about their duties to the commoners, even if she didn’t always understand the privations of the deeply poor.

            “Send him a box of Cu’s shit and a fuck you,” he suggested.

            The mabari, riding in his basket, grinned in his canine manner.

            “He’s not worth mabari shit,” she said dryly. “I was thinking more along the lines of Kirkwall rat terrier…”

            Thom snickered. Moments like this he could almost like the woman.

            It was the last moment of humour for a while. After meeting Scout Harding, a sweetly attractive dwarf who carried her bow with authority, they rested for a bit before riding into the gorge below. To the left, Thom felt his mark tug sharply and knew that a rift was nearby.

            “I sense a rift,” he rumbled. “We should close it before going to the Crossroads.”

            “Agreed,” Solas said. His steed was a sturdy gelding of no special breeding.

            This was a small rift, spewing wraiths who sapped a soldier’s strength. With six of them in the unit, they were able to overcome the double wave, though Morna was leaning against her horse in exhaustion because the wraiths had aimed for her as an archer. Thom noted with a professional eye that she was about village-militia level in her skill with a bow.

            Varric handed her a stamina potion, which she drank with a grimace. Then they returned to the gorge.

            Another rift was on the way, near somewhere Morna called ‘Calenhad’s Foothold’. Shades with their frilled back-crests were the enemy here, Thom and Cassandra drawing attention from the ranged attackers, who focused on the wraiths. Each rift spewed a unique combination of enemies but they were victorious.

            Templars and mages were fighting at the Crossroads as civilians cowered in their sod-roofed huts. By the time both sides were dead, everyone had at least minor wounds, and Thom was ready to throttle the lot of them. The sky was falling down and they were fighting a fucking war!

            He managed to cool his temper enough to greet the soft-spoken Orlesian Giselle, tending to the injured, politely. Around them, Inquisition forces were organising the refugees under Morna and Cassandra’s direction while Solas was mixing herbal medicines and Varric picking elfroot.

            “I greet you, Herald.” Giselle, an umber-skinned cleric who still had an echo of great beauty in her weary features, nodded gently. “It is an honour to meet you.”

            “And you, Revered Mother.”

            Giselle studied him thoughtfully. “You aren’t what I was expecting.”

            “What were you expecting?”

            “I don’t know. But you aren’t it.” The Mother shrugged gracefully. “Come. We must speak about the Chantry and how it must be handled.”

            She led him to a small cottage that was obviously her base of operations in the Hinterlands. “The Grand Clerics’ power lies in their unified voice. Take that away and the Chantry will, if not endorse the Inquisition, at least be unable to interfere in our work.”

            “’Our work’?” Thom raised an eyebrow.

            “You will need a Revered Mother in Haven and I know something of tending to those in a crisis,” she responded calmly. “I also know every Grand Cleric left standing in southern Thedas, by reputation if not personally.”

            “Politics,” he said disgustedly. “The world’s ending and the Grand Clerics are grandstanding.”

            “They are frightened. This is beyond our knowledge and understanding of the Chant. And,” she paused delicately, “You do not quite understand the level of influence that you hold in the palm of your hand, Herald.”

            “I’m not the Herald of Andraste,” Thom growled. “I’m a man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

            “A killer of children and civilians,” Giselle agreed. “But even Maferath repented at the end and you are nowhere as terrible as he was.”

            “A fair few people would disagree.”

            “There are none under the Maker’s gaze who is free of sin.” Giselle turned to a table with some herbs on them and began to organise them. “Cassandra is hot-headed and impetuous despite her faith. Varric is a liar despite his loyalty. Solas seems overly arrogant in his abilities as a mage despite his wisdom. Morna holds grudges despite her intelligence.”

            “And what am I?” Thom asked, noting that the cleric had read his companions well.

            “A man, flawed and repentant, who holds the fate of the world in a Maker-blessed hand,” she said serenely. “You are a liar. A killer of children for your own advantage. Hot-headed and arrogant.”

            Thom flushed. All the flaws she’d enumerated in his allies, she claimed he possessed.

            “Yet you confessed in the wake of the deaths at the Conclave as to not besmirch a good man’s name,” Giselle continued. “Your first orders to the Inquisition forces here were to take care of the refugees. In the wilderness, you taught people to defend themselves. You went to the Conclave as an escort for some innocent mages. The Divine, I’m told, trusted you enough to ask for your help. And Andraste Herself led you out of the Fade.”

            “I don’t remember what happened there,” he confessed.

            “The Maker will reveal all in time.” Giselle looked out over the Crossroads. “There are things that need to be done in Redcliffe before you go to Val Royeaux. Mages and templars fight in the hills, the refugees need food and warmth, and the healer is dead. Rifts are opening everywhere and the local noble abandoned his holding for unknown reasons.”

            Thom nodded with a sigh. “Then we’d better get to it, Revered Mother.”

            Giselle nodded and sketched a blessing with her right hand. “Maker watch over you, Herald of Andraste.”

…

Morna was at the Crossroads for three days as the other four crisscrossed the Hinterlands, setting up camps in strategic spots, clearing out the knots of bandits, mages and templars who terrorised the churls, and closing the rifts that plagued the region. Every time they passed through, they were injured and exhausted, bolting down meals of thin mutton broth and sleeping on straw pallets. But survivors from the other parts of Redcliffe trickled in, telling of how Thom and the others were slowly ending the chaos. Enchanter Ellendra turned her magical skills to helping as best she could but they needed a real healer. Even the horse doctors at Redcliffe Farms were dead thanks to the templars accusing them of being apostates.

            Finally, they’d done as much as they could and Mother Giselle received a reply from her contact in Val Royeaux. “We must go,” the cleric urged.

            “Redcliffe Village’s closed up,” Rainier reported as he unbuckled his breastplate and padded jacket to reveal a homespun undertunic splattered with blood. “They won’t let us through.”

            “What _are_ the mages up to?” Morna wondered.

            “If I knew _that_ , my lady, I’d feel a lot better.” The soldier looked at her sharply. “You look like hell.”

            “It hasn’t been as exciting as your adventures in the Hinterlands but things in the Crossroads haven’t been a picnic either,” Morna said dryly. “We need a real healer, for starters.”

            “We have food and warmth, the King’s Road free of danger and the rifts closed,” Giselle said calmly. “The best that can be done for the people of Redcliffe has been done. Perhaps we can shame the Grand Clerics into sending help, if nothing else.”

            Morna snorted. “Each one will be imagining herself as the new Divine, Mother Giselle. The day Orlesians put common human decency above the Great Game is the day Cu takes up sword-dancing.”

            “A little less cynicism and bitterness would serve you well, Morna Mac Liath,” the cleric chided. “You have been given many blessings. You should show more gratitude to the Maker.”

            The elf-blood reminded herself that bitching at the Revered Mother would make the Inquisition look bad. “I’ve been told that my whole life, Mother Giselle.”

            She knew how blessed, compared to someone like Rainier, she’d been. But having it shoved in her face every bloody day of her life, her very status on the sufferance of the other nobility, made her admittedly bitter. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland had raised her as their own but the laws involving the elf-blooded applied to her – no rank higher than Bann, no carrying of a blade longer than the length of her forearm, no ranged weapon better than a bow, and no armour heavier than brigandine or light chain. Silk and velvet weren’t precisely forbidden to her, but woe betide if she wore anything that was luxurious _and_ decorated – and aside from the Cousland Signet, now worn by Oren, jewels were a big no-no.

            Help save the world and end a civil war, and she was still treated like crap by the Uasal Ard while generally doing what they should have been the whole damn time.

            Morna rose to her feet. “I’m returning to the upper camp,” she told the others. “Unless there’s need for me here?”

            “No. We’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Rainier said. “Sleep well, my lady.”

            He sounded almost sincere. Most of the time, the ‘my lady’ was sarcastic.

            It was a short ride to the camp and Morna was glad to sleep on a pallet that didn’t reek of elfroot and blood. Harding was rounding up the stray rams with Cu, who treated the whole thing as a big game, and the scouts were scouring the hills for more dangers.

            The trip back took a week and a half as they were leading Master Dennet, a string of his best battle-trained Fereldan Forders, Mother Giselle and Enchanter Ellendra. Morna was fairly certain that she hadn’t felt this exhausted back in the Blight days. The last decade had made her soft.

            Still, she remained silent on her suffering. Damned if she’d let Rainier know she was at the end of her endurance.

            When she nearly fell off her horse, the Herald of Andraste snarled in frustration. His steed was big and heavy, a mixture of Forder and Courser lineage, clad in light barded armour. “You’re riding with me, you fool woman,” he ordered.

            “Piss off. I can strap myself in.” She didn’t trust her temper near Rainier when he worked so well to needle it.

            In response, he calmly picked her up by the tangle of her rabbit-fur cloak and put her in front of him between a thick body and the pommel. Cu peeked out of his basket in concern.

            “Your owner’s being stubborn,” Rainier told the mabari.

            Cu, the traitor, whined in agreement and snuggled back into his basket, trusting that his human was in good hands.

            The annoying thing was that it was true. Rainier was competent, more than the half-trained deserter she assumed him to be. Within a few weeks, he’d turned four disparate people into a well-oiled fighting unit and even earned the grudging respect of Cassandra and Leliana. He cared for the soldiers under his command and did his best to help the civilians in Redcliffe.

            Master Dennet tied her horse’s reins to the string of horses he led and they went on their way. Embarrassed and disgruntled, Morna wrapped her cloak tighter about herself and tried not to think of how warm Rainier was, as he’d shed his breastplate in the cold Frostback weather.

            He drew his long cloak, a thick garment of undyed wool lined with fennec fur, around them both. Thankfully, no one said anything.

            They rode into Haven and Morna blinked, drawn out of her light doze. Had she fallen asleep against Rainier? Maker, all she needed.

            “I’ve gotten soft,” she grumbled under her breath. “I once walked all the way across Ferelden in the Blight.”

            “We’re all tired, my lady,” Rainier sighed. “But Redcliffe is a lot more secure.”

            “I suppose it is.” But there were other regions in Ferelden that were under siege from demons and renegades.

            She was asleep when news came of an Avvar warband taking Inquisition soldiers prisoner in the Fallow Mire reached Leliana, but Rainier’s bellow of anger awoke half the village.

            “I’ll give this Hand of Korth the fucking ‘Herald of Andraste’,” he snarled. “He should have had the balls to come here and challenge me.”

            Morna rubbed her eyes. “A champion of Korth the Mountain-Father? Do we know his Hold?”

            “I don’t fucking care,” Rainier said bluntly.

            “You should. We’re arse-deep in Avvar territory and the Fallow Mire is Chasind territory,” she retorted. “Both of them could cause serious harm to the Inquisition.”

            He took a deep breath and looked to Josephine. “What do you know of the Avvar?”

            “Very little,” she admitted with a chagrined expression.

            Morna poured herself some Antivan coffee. She hated the stuff but it could wake up the dead. “I know something of them. By challenging you, the Hand of Korth is proving the superiority of the Mountain-Father over the Maker. Or he thinks he is.”

            Rainier grunted. “I’ll pike his head at the gates of Haven. Fucking coward kidnapping a group of soldiers who did his people no harm just so he can prove who has the bigger divine balls.”

            “There’s an image I could have done without,” Morna noted, sipping the bitter black brew. “Avvar don’t bathe in winter, so they’re usually a little pungent.”

            “I refuse to ask how you know this,” Josephine observed.

            “The Wardens came to Haven in the winter while we were looking for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. The Disciples of Andraste…” Morna shook her head. “They were Avvar heathens as much as Chantry heathens. But they were still Avvar.”

            She yawned. “I’ll go through the records. You’ll still need to let Harding scout the bog. It’s full of undead from the plague that ran through there a few centuries ago. The Chasind call it ‘the bog of the damned’, I’m told.”

            “Lovely.” Rainier sounded even sourer.

            “That’s my purpose here – to deliver bad news,” Morna said wryly.

            “Funny, I thought it was to drive me up the wall,” Rainier observed as he turned for the door.

            “Nah, that’s just one of the extra services I offer. Just like sarcasm.”

            “I noticed.”


	5. The Bog of the Damned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, classism and mentions of child deaths. Introducing an AU version of a favourite character! Also, Chasind and Avvar head-canon and mentions of the Spirit Warrior specialisation from Dragon Age: Awakening.

 

“The Veil is thin here and death waits in the waters.”

            “So in addition to it reeking like a Kirkwaller’s jockstrap, we’re going to be dealing with demons and walking corpses. _Lovely_.” Thom couldn’t resist the sarcasm in response to Solas’ statement.

            “Compared to this place, a Kirkwaller’s jockstrap is positively aromatic,” Varric disagreed dryly, earning a bark of laughter from the Herald.

            “Try to stay out of the water,” Solas advised as his bare feet (why _did_ most elves go shoeless) squelched in the cold dark mud. “The dead will be disturbed otherwise.”

            They pressed deeper into the Fallow Mire, trusting in Solas’ intuition and his reading of Fade energies to keep them on the solid ground, such as it was. The very air was wet with moisture and ripe with the stench of dead things. Thom wondered where the Avvar had gone.

            When they reached the first beacon, the elf’s face lit up with satisfaction. “Veilfire,” he said. “I will light the brazier – be prepared for any danger.”

            When the eerie greenish glow illuminated the small island, the undead stirred and attacked. Thom nearly gagged at their reek and realised that not all of them were human. “Be careful, some of them are darkspawn!”

            Solas strode to the middle of the island and put his hand to his temple, a blast of energy driving the walking corpses back into the water long enough for them to get into formation. Then he planted his staff in the ground and called chain lightning, exploding the heads of five darkspawn undead in unison. He wasn’t just a Fade expert; he was one of the best combative mages Thom had ever seen in action.

            Then it descended into a bloody, boggy mess that involved literally hacking the corpses to death. Varric’s flaming bolts came in useful but it was Solas’ lightning and the warriors who saved the day.

            “And we’re not even halfway into the bog,” Thom panted as he flicked ichor from his sword, the mage collecting useful bits. Adan apparently had use for undead flesh and hearts and ichor. “I’m beginning to think the Chasind named this place well.”

            “If the echoes I am seeing are accurate, the Chasind used to sacrifice people here before the Fereldans settled,” Solas observed, leaning on his staff to regain his mana. “That is why the Fade resonates with death and despair.”

            Cassandra sighed. “We must press on. The soldiers must be rescued.”

            “Agreed.” Thom readied his sword and shield. “Solas, find us the next beacon. It’s as good a way to navigate through here as any.”

            They found another place to establish an Inquisition camp – Thom pitied the sorry bastards assigned here – and then at the second beacon, a giant barbarian in a painted masked cape stood by a half-shut rift. “Hand of Korth?” he demanded, ready to gut the bastard for dragging his men through the muck and mire.

            “No. I am Sky Watcher,” the Avvar replied. “The sorry whelp lies ahead with your soldiers. They’re well-trained. I had to send several Avvar back to the Lady of the Skies.”

            “Shame it wasn’t more,” Thom growled, raising his marked hand.

            “You’re the Herald of Andraste?” Sky Watcher continued to lean on his massive hammer.

            “That’s what they call me.”

            “The stories say you can close the wounds in the Lady of the Skies’ skin.”

            Thom paused. This Avvar wasn’t hostile. He also recalled what Morna told him about Old Alamarri religion – which lived on amongst the Chasind and the Avvar. The Lady of the Skies was the goddess of air, wind, sky and death, the Mother-Goddess of the Avvar, whereas Korth the Mountain-Father was, amongst other things, the Lord of the Frostback Mountains. “I don’t know how I do it, I just do,” he admitted.

            “Good. Close this wound and prove yourself.” Sky Watcher paused and added, “I can’t fight alongside you because that whelp is of my Hold, but I don’t have to fight for him either.”

            Thom nodded and raised his hand. “Get ready, people.”

            Sky Watcher was a two-handed warrior whose attacks somehow channelled elemental energy – maybe he was the Avvar equivalent of a Knight-Enchanter? But each blow of his hammer unleashed lightning, fire and ice upon the undead and demons or shook the ground beneath him. With his help, Thom was soon closing the Rift with the clenched fist that was now second nature, the ache a half-ignored thing.

            Solas was regarding the Avvar warrior interestedly. “You are not a mage, yet you have somehow attuned yourself to the spirits of the Fade.”

            He nodded easily. “I am a priest of the Lady of the Skies. I read the portents, return the dead to Her, give herbs for healing and a dagger for the dying. The lesser gods help me in return for me letting them work through me in battle – they are gods of war and violence. Not your rage demons.”

            Solas inclined his head approvingly. “An excellent bargain. Spirits become demons when their purpose is denied.”

            “Exactly. We Avvar and even the Chasind know this. Glad to see the elvhen haven’t forgotten it either.”

            Solas’ expression darkened. “Too many have.”

            Sky Watcher turned to Thom, who’d listened to the entire exchange bemusedly. “As I said, can’t fight with you against the whelp. Besides, I have another duty here. But your soldiers are ahead, as are two more beacons. They’ll call the dead out to you so you can end their misery.”

            “Thanks for your help,” Thom answered gruffly.

            “Closing the wounds in the Lady will be enough for me. I think the whelp’s bitten off more than he can chew.” The priest grinned. “Perhaps we will meet again, Herald.”

            He lumbered off into the rain.

            “I would like to learn more of Avvar magic in the future,” Solas observed. “They appear to have formed a symbiotic relationship with the spirits that benefits both sides.”

            Cassandra scowled. “It is blasphemy and they are heathens.”

            “The standard Chantry response to anything they do not understand,” Solas answered coolly. “Come, we must end this quickly before the Avvar realise we are here.”

            They eventually reached the ruins of a once-mighty keep, guarded by an entire horde of undead. The Fallow Mire attracted dark magics and spirits that the rifts made worse.

            “We will need to punch through them and get that gate shut,” Cassandra said grimly.

            “Let’s go.”

            They ignored the endless undead and pushed past the Avvar guards, Varric using his small stature to get up to the walkway and crank the windlass until the gate slammed shut. Then he shot the three Avvar coming in his direction with one heavy quarrel before taking out targets below. Bianca had been extensively modified and the Avvar were lightly armoured.

            Thom was dosing himself with a healing potion when the door Varric declared locked opened. A wiry, weasel-faced man wearing the same sort of chain-and-brigandine Morna owned found himself facing two drawn swords and a crossbow.

            “Now that’s just rude,” he declared in a coarse Fereldan accent. “I ain’t done nothing to you.”

            In the rain, it was hard to tell the colour of his armour or the heraldic device on his tabard, but torchlight glittered along the lines of the griffin emblazoned on his light breastplate.

            “Apologies, Grey Warden,” Thom said gruffly, sheathing his sword.

            The Warden’s eyes flickered down to his left hand. “So, you’re the one runnin’ around callin’ himself Blackwall.”

            “I was, yes,” Thom admitted. “My real name’s Thom Rainier.”

            “Yeah, I know. Milady Morna told me.” The rogue extended a hand. “Daveth at yer service.”

            Thom found himself shaking the hand of a genuine Hero of the Blight. Everyone knew that Brytta Brosca had slain the archdemon in unison with her husband Duncan but this man had been a senior Warden in the battle. “It’s an honour to meet you, my lord.”

            “Ain’t no lord.” Daveth’s eyes glittered. “Kinda curious though, why didn’t you come in to Val Chevin or Vigil’s Keep on Blackwall’s death?”

            “He died, taking a blow from a darkspawn for me.” Thom hung his head in shame. “Because of who I am, I thought you’d believe I murdered him.”

            “How’d you lot wind up fightin’ darkspawn?”

            “He sent me into the Deep Roads to fill a vial with darkspawn blood,” Thom said softly, fumbling in his beltpouch for the tiny glass amulet. He pulled it out and showed it to the scout.

            “There’s yer proof of Conscription right there,” Daveth said softly. “Damn shame about Blackwall. Didn’t know him but Duncan says he was a good man.”

            “He was a better one than me,” Thom admitted.

            “Or crazier. He _volunteered_ for the Wardens.” Daveth smirked. “Thanks for the save. I’ll help you put down that Avvar jackass. Yer soldiers are still alive, though some of them are wounded.”

            “Why are you here?” Cassandra demanded suspiciously.

            “This place’s called Griffin Rock,” Daveth responded. “Used to be a Warden’s place. Was lookin’ for useful information.”

            Daveth unlimbered a powerful bow and drew an arrow with a nasty barbed head. “None of these Avvar honoured proper hospitality, so it’s fair game to kill ‘em. They’ll be going in the bog when I’m done.”

            “And unleash more undead?” Cassandra was incredulous.

            “Well, ain’t gonna honour them by tastin’ their flesh an’ Amund Sky Watcher won’t break up their bodies for the birds,” Daveth answered calmly. “Speaking of which-“

            “We came across him and he helped us close a rift,” Thom answered.

            “Good. Let’s go.”

            “From what Hawke told me, the Chasind only eat the flesh of honoured warriors and enemies,” Varric murmured as they followed the Warden into Griffin’s Rock. “It’s meant to pass on the strength, that sort of thing.”

            “Daveth’s not what I expected,” Thom said.

            “Heroes rarely are.”

            “That man bears the same taint as the darkspawn we fought in Valammar,” Solas said with a troubled expression.

            “Yeah. Whatever makes a Warden, they gain short-term immunity to the taint and become harder, faster and stronger,” Varric confirmed. “The trade-off is that they die young – ten years in the Grey is a veteran, twenty years is an elder and none of them have seen any longer than thirty – and that if an archdemon shows up, the Warden who kills it dies.”

            Thom licked his lips. “They’re heroes.”

            “Yeah, but not the knight in shining armour sort. Well, a few of them like Gordon Blackwall are.” Varric sighed. “The rest are more like Daveth – decent enough people but when it comes to the Blight, there’s nothing they won’t do to stop it. Remember, after the fall of Amaranthine, Daveth and the other Wardens went through the ruins street by street and purged it with steel and fire to make certain of the darkspawn and taint.”

            “A harsh choice but a necessary one,” Cassandra sighed.

            “I am not certain I am comfortable with an order that dabbles in forces they do not understand and dedicate themselves to ending a threat no matter the cost,” Solas said worriedly.

            Varric looked at him bleakly. “You thought Valammar was bad? Ask Morna or Leliana what Ferelden was like during the Blight. Hawke told me how Carver died at the hands of an Ogre. Wardens are harsh but the Blight is worse.”

            Thom shook his head. “We have soldiers to rescue.”

            The Hand of Korth was nearly as big as Amund. “Come Herald of Andraste! Prove your god is stronger than mine!”

            Varric’s last flaming bolt punctured the Hand’s throat, killing him instantly.

            “I despise people who take hostages to start a fight,” the dwarf said disgustedly.

            Thom grinned at him before the rest of the Avvar attacked.

            Thom found the key to the room where the soldiers were imprisoned as Daveth collected some Warden things, Cassandra made certain of the enemy and Solas brooded. Amund lumbered in soon after, spitting on the Hand’s corpse.

            “There he lies, the worthless brat,” he said contemptuously. “I’d leave his carcass for the bog but his father, chief of our Hold, would fight me.”

            “Movran’d be nothing in a fight compared to you, big guy,” Daveth told the Sky Watcher.

            “I know. But I have no time to rule our Hold.” Amund sighed and looked to Thom. “Herald of Andraste, your god protects you.”

            “Andraste guided him from the Fade to save us all,” Cassandra said piously.

            “Maybe. Or the Lady of the Skies knew he was the only one who could heal the cuts in Her skin.” Amund shrugged. “Until She is healed, I’d like to help your Inquisition.”

            Thom offered the big Avvar his hand. “I’d welcome it.”

            They shook hands and the Herald tried not to wince. Amund was ridiculously strong.

            “I got what I need, Amund,” Daveth announced. “Go keep them heathens out of trouble, yeah?”

            Solas actually smirked as Cassandra looked offended.

            “You’re not coming with us, Daveth?” Varric asked.

            “Might come as far as Haven with you. Reckon Milady Morna would like to know what’s going on with her dad.” The Warden’s expression was grim. “Otherwise, can’t really tell you much. Just… keep an eye on the Deep Roads. Something weird’s going on in the taint.”

            Thom nodded. “Thanks for the warning.”

            Daveth inclined his head. “No worries. Be good to catch up with a couple old friends anyway.”

            He led them from Griffin’s Rock, Solas hanging back to speak with Thom. “I would be wary of the Wardens,” the mage observed softly. “The Breach could be having an effect on more than the spirits.”

            Thom nodded reluctantly. “The darkspawn were certainly bold enough in Valammar.”

            “Precisely. I hope I can study the Wardens a little more to understand what is going on.”

            “I still believe they’re heroes.”

            “Even heroes can become villains.” The elf paused significantly and added, “Or villains become heroes.”

            He walked ahead, leaving Thom troubled in his wake.


	6. The Disciple of Andraste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, classism, fantastic racism, deaths involving minors, torture of an elder and war crimes.

 

“G’day Milady.”

            Morna was in the middle of poring over the remaining archives belonging to the Disciples of Andraste, attempting to find some relics from the early cult that might sweeten the Chantry’s disposition towards the Inquisition, when a familiar voice interrupted her studies.

            “Hello Daveth. I see you haven’t been hung yet.” Her last communication with the Warden-Scout had been about a month ago, but it had been just after the mess in Kirkwall that she last saw him person.

            “Now why would they hang an upstandin’ citizen like me?” the half-Chasind laughed as he rounded the desk to give her a hug.

            “Do you want me and Leliana to compile the list of reasons?” She returned the hug until her ribs ached. Daveth had always been one of the few, even amongst the Blight companions, who gave zero fucks about her elven blood. “Is Morrigan here? Maker knows we could use someone with her knowledge.”

            “She’s chasing stuff in Orlais at the moment, was even before this shit went down,” Daveth said with a sigh. “Kieran’s safer with her, yeah?”

            “Yeah.” The Warden smelt a little of bog. “How was the trip to Griffin’s Rock?”

            “Informative. Wish Blackwall had forwarded the news he had a recruit in Rainier to Val Chevin. Coulda saved a lot of grief for everyone and gotten a damn good Warden.”

            Morna released the wiry scout. “You believe him?”

            Daveth nodded. “I do. He had the vial and it weren’t Blackwall’s. He told me where the body might be found – had to run ‘cause lot of darkspawn.”

            “The Storm Coast, right?” Morna had made some enquiries of her own.

            “Yeah, up past them Blades of Hessarian loonies.” Daveth sighed explosively and rubbed the back of his olive-skinned neck. “But maybe the gods didn’t want Rainier as a Warden because he’d be no use as the Herald. Whatever caused the Breach, it’s fucking around with the taint.”

            Morna nodded grimly. “We’ve gotten reports of Wardens breaking off their usual patrols and heading back to Orlais.”

            “Yeah, Clarel’s called ‘em in.” Daveth grimaced. “Morna, hon, no easy way to tell you this-“

            Her heart clenched. “Dad’s Calling?”

            “Yeah, it’s begun. Duncan and Bryt are still fine though.”

            Morna closed her eyes against the tears. Riordan had been blessed with thirty years and while he and her mother couldn’t raise her, she knew they’d both loved her dearly. She could have been left to the Chantry like so many other orphans, raised to become another low-level Sister or templar, but instead they’d made certain her life was as good as it could be made.

            “He’s gonna try an’ come through on the way to Orzammar,” Daveth continued gently.

            “If he doesn’t… I understand.” Dorf’asha, her mother, had undergone the Calling before Morna could ever meet her.

            “I knew you would. He did tell me to tell you that he loves you and he’s proud of you.”

            She smiled sadly. “If you see him, tell him I love him and thank you for doing the best he could for me.”

            “I will.” Daveth patted her shoulder. “I’ll hang around for a day or so, chat to Leli and pass on what I know about Orlais. That fucking civil war of theirs is still going on despite the Breach.”

            “Of course it is. Why should Ferelden be the only contender for ‘stupid civil wars at the worst possible time’?” Morna observed, wiping her eyes.

            Daveth snickered. “Them Ciriane. If they put as much brains into common sense as they did into fashion…”

            “They’d have reconquered Thedas from here to Tevinter.” Morna managed another smile. “Go have another wash. You smell like an Ogre’s arse.”

            “You _would_ pick that up. Yer nose is better than Cu’s.”

            “No, you just stink.” Morna grinned at him and ducked his fake blow easily.

            “I’ll catch up with you some more before I head out,” he promised as he headed for the door.

            “Looking forward to it.” Morna sighed and sat back down. Now that the politicking was in earnest, her free time was at an end. Every little bit of law and knowledge had to be examined for use in the three main advisors’ purviews.

            Within an hour or so, she dispensed with finding the relics for now and rubbed the back of her aching neck. What she wouldn’t give for a proper study with wide glass windows, floor to ceiling bookshelves and maybe a research assistant looking for a bit of academic sponsorship…

            “My lady.” Rainier knocked on the doorframe, drawing her attention. “Can we talk?”

            “That’s what I’m here for.” Morna set aside her papers and rose to her feet. Whether he knew it or not, Rainier was fast becoming more than an officer – he was becoming a general. “What’s up?”

            _The world will be at his feet before the end of this,_ she realised with a shiver. _Maker, I hope it doesn’t turn him back into the man who killed children for his own ambition._

“Two things,” Rainier said, stepping aside so she could grab her fur-lined cloak. “One, I recruited a Sky Watcher named Amund in the Fallow Mire.”

            “Amund?” Morna’s eyebrow rose. “He’s an old friend of Daveth’s.”

            “So I’m told. He wants to help out because I can ‘heal the wounds in the Lady of the Skies’ skin’.”

            “Makes sense with what I know of Avvar cosmology. I don’t know a lot about Sky Watchers, but you could definitely use him as a friendly emissary to the local Holds.” Morna fastened her cloak tightly around herself. “You rescued the soldiers?”

            “Most of them. Hand of Korth’s dead. Varric used him for target practice and now Amund is making a big deal about a child of Korth killing the so-called Hand of Korth.” Rainier looked a little bemused.

            “The Avvar believe that dwarves are the children of Korth the Mountain-Father,” Morna explained. “If I understand correctly, Varric killing the Hand implies that the Mountain-Father was _not_ happy with the man, which will have ramifications on the Hold he comes from.”

            “Huh.” Rainier let her exit the small cabin she shared with Adan. “You know a fair bit about the Avvar.”

            “Not as much as I’d like. Most of my knowledge is second-hand or extrapolated from my studies into Alamarri history.” Morna looked past the palisade to the mountains beyond. It was a gorgeous view even with the Breach in the sky. “The Avvar, the Chasind and the Clayne, who would become the heart of the kingdom we now call Ferelden, were once a people known as the Alamarri. The Orlesians were once called the Ciriane – and amongst the more traditionalist Avvar and the Chasind, they’re still referred to as such.”

            “Amund and Daveth tell me they still worship the old gods,” Rainier observed.

            “They do. If you’re interested in the history of how the Avvar split from the Alamarri and made alliance with the dwarves of Valammar, I can lend you a translation of ‘Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Avvar Mother’ I’ve been making from the old stones you found around Redcliffe and notes from Sister Dorcas, who was my tutor in Old Alamarri.”

            The air was brisk as they walked along the palisade path past the Singing Maiden, where a minstrel sang something sad and haunting.

            “I reckon you could teach Brother Genitivi a thing or two,” Rainier noted.

            “Hardly. I knew him during the Blight. Because he’d been chasing the Urn of Sacred Ashes for Arl Eamon, the Disciples of Andraste captured him and… were harsh. But he’s a tough old coot and pulled through. We still write each other.” Morna sighed and tightened her cloak a little.

            “That was the second thing I wanted to talk to you about.” Rainier’s tone was suddenly grim. “We’ve found a woman who fights like nothing I’ve ever seen who’s calling herself a Disciple of Andraste. She cut down two fully armoured templars before Ser Belinda and Katari took her down.”

            “Reaver,” Morna promptly replied. “The Disciple warriors would drink the blood of a high dragon that they revered as Andraste reborn and gain… hell, the closest thing I can compare it to is blood magic for warriors. The more they bled, the harder they hit. By the end of the Blight, three of the warriors in our group – Alistair Theirin, Warden Oghren and Sten of the Beresaad – were reavers because of all the drake-kin we fought in Haven and the temple complex behind it.”

            “That’s what Cassandra said. The Pentaghasts are apparently natural reavers because of all the dragon hunting they did.”

            “So are the Theirins, if the legends about King Calenhad’s fighting ability were true.” Morna grimaced. “Alistair inherited _that_ , if nothing else.”

            “What’s the grudge between you two?” Rainier asked bluntly.

            “Failed romance and the fact he got to keep the Theirin surname while I was stripped of the Cousland one given to me by Uncle Bryce when we’re both elf-blooded bastards,” Morna admitted sourly. “I know you see me as incredibly blessed compared to many commoners – and I am. But in Ferelden, elf blood automatically removes you from the line of succession for anything higher than a minor bannorn and it was used as an excuse to try and stop me from becoming Oren’s Regent until he came of age. I was Oren’s last adult relative who didn’t come from minor coastal bannorns and actually knew Highever. He was my nephew. I’d be damned before someone who didn’t know the teynir took power just because they were pure human.”

            “I can understand that level of frustration,” Rainier conceded. “From Ser Belinda’s report, your Oren’s got the potential to be a great leader.”

            “Fergus should have lived to be Teyrn but Loghain sent him into the Korcari Wilds to die,” Morna said bitterly. “I just did my best to teach Oren the lessons that Uncle Bryce taught me and Fergus: ‘the first in battle, the last to retreat/the first to give, the last to take/the first to starve, the last to eat/this the vow we Couslands make’. We’ve had our share of Teyrns who broke those vows but Bryce and Eleanor Cousland weren’t two of them.”

            “Well, he’s thrown his support behind the Inquisition and offered us use of the port. Josephine’s arranging trade deals that should make Highever prosperous.” Rainier led her into the Chantry. “Can’t say as I like this favour-trading but we don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

            “No. But at least Josephine believes in fair deals and her reputation is solid from here to Par Vollen,” Morna agreed. “The Inquisition’s inner circle have some pretty solid ethics, just like the people I worked with during the Blight. Even Zev, Daveth and Brosca had lines they wouldn’t cross.”

            They headed down into the dungeon where Rainier had once been confined. “I suppose it’s good people like you, Josephine and Leliana are handling the, uh, subtle side of things.”

            Morna chuckled wryly. “I’m not known for my subtlety. In fact, I’m told my bluntness is proverbial in Orzammar after my visit there.”

            “True, my lady. Your tongue could slice roast meat at twenty paces.”

            “You’re fairly good at the sarcasm yourself, Master Rainier.”

            “I’ve been learning from you. It’s like sparring – you learn to dodge and block or get cut into collops.”

            “If you think I’m bad, wait until you address the Grand Clerics. They’re all Orlesians and they won’t just slice you, they’ll filet you with a few well-chosen words.”

            A dark chuckle came from the right-hand cell. “The gilded Chantry says only one truth exists. And its servants lie, steal, kill to make it so.”

            The Disciple emerged to press herself against the bars, sky-blue eyes glittering strangely in the torchlight. Long dark hair framed strong features, weathered and worn, with a warrior’s tattoos painting her face in bold red stripes. “I remember you. You called the old scholar by name and spoke of things no outsider should know.”

            Morna had met several reavers in her time, so the feral rage in the prisoner’s eyes didn’t faze her. “You kidnapped a good man and tortured him, Disciple. Your leader would have tainted a holy relic that we needed to heal a nobleman. Korim could have let us pass and we would have left you alone.”

            “I did not do these things and the Knights of Redcliffe trespassed on holy ground, showing no respect for our ways and ordering us about as if we were lowlander heretics.”

            Morna grimaced. “I’ll grant most of the Knights of Redcliffe were right arses. Genitivi would have happily shared what he knew with you though. He’s that sort of man. But you killed his assistant and hurt him badly.”

            The reaver sighed. “And we paid for our sins. Holy Andraste is lost to us and I am the last. I will die in this hole.”

            Rainier cleared his throat. “Not necessarily – what’s your name, anyway?”

            “I am Tamar. Carve it on the graves of those I killed.”

            “I don’t believe in killing people who’ve made mistakes. Hell, I’ve made a few myself.” Rainier met her gaze. “My name is Thom Rainier. Some call me the Herald of Andraste because a woman guided me out of the Fade after the Temple of Sacred Ashes exploded. I can close the rifts and am trying to find enough allies to help me close the Breach.”

            Tamar’s eyes widened. “You… You were there when the last chains of Andraste’s mortal being were destroyed?”

            Familiar with the Disciples’ beliefs, Morna nodded before Rainier could say anything. “He was. And it is believed that Andraste Herself led him out of the Fade.”

            “She must have.” Tamar’s voice was strong with conviction. “She has always shown mercy to mortals.”

            “Probably given me more grace than I deserve,” Rainier sighed. “I’m going to give you a choice, Tamar.”

            “What is it, Chosen of Andraste?” Tamar now looked eerily serene, certain she was in the presence of someone holy.

            “I can take you outside and give you a clean death by my own hand. No one deserves to die in a dark hole. Or you can join the Inquisition and fight for us. I don’t give a damn what your beliefs are, so long as you don’t harm anyone else for theirs. When this is all over, you’ll be free.”

            Tamar grasped the bars like they were the hilt of a sword. “I will fight for you, Chosen of Andraste. I am told the gilded Chantry despises your Inquisition.”

            “We’re trying to gently educate them otherwise,” Morna observed dryly.

            The reaver snorted. “You can’t educate fools. Better to pull down their Grand Cathedral around their ears.”

            “Conversations between her and Cassandra are going to be nearly as entertaining as conversations between Cassandra and Solas,” Morna chuckled.

            Tamar gave a feral smile. “I will be gentle in my education. The Seeker has dragon’s blood and it’s a sin to kill those blessed by Andraste.”

            “I’d prefer you not kill anyone who’s part of the Inquisition and only those outside who you’re ordered to by me, Commander Cullen, Sister Leliana, Ambassador Josephine or Lady Morna here,” Rainier said firmly. “I’d also prefer you not call me Chosen of Andraste. I’m having enough trouble with Herald.”

            “As you wish. Your modesty does you credit.” Tamar rose to her feet; like most of the Avvar, she was a tall, powerful woman.

            “Get Cullen,” Rainier ordered the guard. “He’s the one with the key.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            Within a few minutes, the golden-haired Commander arrived, armour jangling. “You’re releasing her?”

            “Tamar’s agreed to fight for the Inquisition. I don’t care what she believes so long as she doesn’t hurt any of our people.”

            Cullen’s eyebrows rose. “The Chantry’s going to love this.”

            “The Grand Consensus are clucking like a bunch of old hens while the henhouse is on fire,” Rainier said sourly. “Mother Giselle and her people are the only ones with any bloody sense.”

            “I’m not disagreeing with you. There’s a reason why I left the templars and joined the Inquisition. But we still need the old hens.” Cullen unlocked the cell door and took a step back to let Tamar out.

            The reaver was a little taller than Rainier and a little shorter than Cullen. She towered over Morna and probably weighed twice as much in muscle as the scholar-rogue did. “So who needs to die?” she asked calmly.

            “You need some food, rest and a visit to our healer first,” Cullen said firmly. “We won’t be using you for frontline combat like most of the soldiers – you’ll be going into situations where a more _targeted_ response is required.”

            Tamar stared at him and Morna decided to translate. “We’re not wasting your talents on anything an ordinary soldier can handle, Tamar. You’ll likely be grouped with a mage and rogue in a small team that’s meant to deal with the jobs which require more precision and skill than anything else.”

            “Ah. Like the assassins we sent to Lake Calenhad to eliminate you and your friends, Lady Morna.”

            “Yeah,” Morna dryly confirmed. “Like that.”

            Tamar’s grin was bloodthirsty. “Good. Killing weak enemies is a waste of Andraste’s blessing.”

            “Oh Maker help me,” Cullen sighed.

            “He will,” Tamar assured him. “You have the Chosen of Andraste to guide you.”

            Rainier was already looking pained and Morna almost laughed. If nothing else, Tamar was going to make life interesting in Haven.


	7. Allies in Val Royeaux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, classism, criminal acts, fantastic racism and mentions of deaths involving children and war crimes.

 

It was time to travel to Val Royeaux and address the Grand Clerics.

            Thom chose a team of five to join him – Cassandra, Varric, Solas, Morna and Enchanter Ellendra. Two warriors, two rogues and two mages. The trip to Val Royeaux was at a slightly easier pace than the one to Redcliffe as Ellendra wasn’t used to a soldier’s march and even looked uneasy on her gentle Orlesian palfrey. He’d brought Morna along because the woman knew politics but had no stake (at present) in Orlais while Josephine and Leliana needed to remain in Haven so their agents could find them.

            As they rode down The Avenue of Her Reflective Thought, a scout met them at the gates. “The Revered Mothers are gathered in the bazaar and the templars have returned to Val Royeaux,” the young woman gasped.

            “The templars have returned to the fold?” Varric asked.

            “Maybe. Or they’re here to protect the Revered Mothers from the blasphemous Herald of Andraste,” Thom growled.

            “Surely not!” the scout said.

            “Return to Haven. Someone needs to warn them in case we are… delayed,” Cassandra ordered.

            “Yes, my lady.”

            Thom dismounted, the others following him. He almost wished he had Tamar and Amund at his back. But entering the Grand Cathedral with a heretic and a heathen would have turned the Chantry against him. “Be prepared for trouble.”

            “No, I thought I’d sit and twiddle my thumbs as the world burned,” Ellendra observed sarcastically.

            Morna was looking around the Avenue, wrinkling her nose at the faint odour of excrement that a legion of street cleaners couldn’t remove. “Appropriate that the entrance of Val Royeaux smells like crap,” she said with a sigh.

            Cu was gagging. The mabari was an extra level of protection and Morna claimed he could even function as an assassin if need be. Thom was becoming convinced of the hound’s intelligence.

            They walked down the Avenue, past the two front shops, and around the memorial to face a Revered Mother as she addressed the crowd. “The Divine was murdered, her beautiful and naïve heart silenced by the foul treachery of the one who calls himself the Herald of Andraste,” she announced. “A man as vile as any Tevinter Magister, as Maferath himself-“

            Thom’s fists clenched, light sparking green from the left one, and strode past the terrified crowd of richly dressed civilians. “I didn’t do it. And we’re trying to close the Breach!”

            “Lies. But fear not, people of Val Royeaux. The templars have returned to protect us from the unholy Inquisition!”

            Right on cue, twenty templars led by a man in Seeker’s armour marched into the Bazaar.

            “Detain these heretics,” the Revered Mother ordered the Seeker.

            “Silence, old woman!” The Seeker, a sallow-faced grey-haired warrior, punched her viciously in the face.

            “Lord Seeker Lucius, what is the meaning of this?” Cassandra demanded in outrage.

            “I came to see what frightened old women,” Lucius sneered. There was something dark and empty in his eyes, a distorted mirror of emotion. “Now I have.”

            “You shame yourself and your order,” Thom growled, fists still clenched. “Beating up an old woman.”

            “And you murdered four children in a carriage,” Lucius retorted. “The templars are now called to a higher purpose than the bidding of old biddies.”

            “But sir, what if he is the Herald of Andraste?” asked a handsome young man with Rivaini-dark skin and vivid green eyes.

            “Have faith in me, Ser Barris.” Lucius clapped him on the shoulder and drew him into line. “Templars, we leave at once.”

            The armoured warriors marched out and Ellendra darted through the crowd to help the Revered Mother up.

            “Has Lord Lucius gone mad?” Cassandra asked, still astonished. “He is normally a sober, pious man.”

            “Power and a crisis can change any man,” Solas observed softly. “It appears the templars will not aid us. We should ask the mages for help.”

            “This isn’t a discussion we should have in public,” Morna said firmly. “Ellendra, is the Revered Mother alright?”

            “She’ll be fine,” the mage reported.

            Thom looked down at the old woman. “I didn’t ask anyone to call me the Herald of Andraste, Revered Mother.”

            “That is… more comforting than you know,” she wheezed.

            “Do you need any help?”

            The cleric shook her head as two junior sisters supported her. “No.”

            Thom sighed. Damn, this was a bloody mess.

            He turned around and saw Varric talking to a well-dressed merchant who approached them. “-If you want to help out, we could use supplies in Haven,” the dwarf was saying. “The Inquisition’s trying to close the Breach, but we need help.”

            “We’d be grateful for any aid you give us, ma’am,” Thom said with a slight bow.

            “I will go to Haven then. My name is Belle.” The merchant smiled under her mask and faded back into the crowd.

            “So now what?” Thom asked of the air.

            “We go shopping for some necessities,” Morna suggested. “We may not be in Val Royeaux again-“

            An arrow landed between the two of them, tied with a scarlet rag that a scroll attached to it.

            “An arrow with a message?” Cassandra blurted. After seeing the Lord Seeker hit a cleric, the woman wasn’t operating on all levels.

            Thom knelt down and pulled the scroll out. A series of instructions. “This might be worth investigating.”

            A messenger in fine mage robes approached. “My lord Herald of Andraste?”

            “Yes?” Thom asked warily.

            “I deliver to you an invitation from Madame de Fer,” the man responded with a crisp bow, handing over another scroll.

            Thom scanned the lines: soiree, the First Enchanter of the Imperial Court. Not an enemy he dared make. “Thank you. Tell her I’ll attend with a guest, if I may?”

            “Madame Vivienne would be a powerful ally,” Ellendra confirmed.

            “Certainly, my lord Herald. If you and your guest require appropriate masks and other accoutrements, such may be provided to you by Madame de Fer.”

            “That’s kind of her but we should be good.” Thom’s smile was on the sour side of polite. “I’ve been to a few soirees in my time. I even know how to dance.”

            The mage bowed elegantly. “Of course, my lord Herald. Good day.”

            Thom sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Solas, Varric, can you track those scarves for me?”

            “Sure thing,” the dwarf readily agreed.

            “Cassandra, Ellendra, can you go shopping for supplies and see what the local gossip is? I don’t want to walk into something blind.”

            “Very well,” Ellendra agreed. “If I have a Seeker with me, I should be left alone.”

            “My lady-“

            “Let me guess, I’m going shopping for appropriate masks and soiree outfits,” she finished wryly. “I can already hear Josephine and Leliana crying out in horror.”

            Thom looked at her brown linen gown with its fine undershift. “I can’t imagine why, my lady.”

            “Because I have the taste of a Fereldan,” the fine-boned woman said dryly.

            “…I’d better come with you.” Thom knew _something_ of what was appropriate for a soiree like Madame Vivienne had invited them to.

            “Good idea.”

            He shouldn’t feel ridiculously happy that there was something Morna couldn’t do that he could. It was petty of him.

            “Don’t forget the velvet slippers encrusted with jewels,” Cassandra said cryptically.

            “Leliana’s the one who likes fancy footwear,” Morna said, eyes narrowed. “Besides, what makes you think I’ll be the guest? It could be you.”

            Varric snickered. “The Seeker at an Orlesian party? Madame de Fer would spontaneously combust.”

            “Or Seeker Cassandra would,” Ellendra muttered under her breath.

            “Ha ha ha. Let’s get to work, people. Val Royeaux is going to be… interesting.” Thom had no idea how prophetic his words would be.

…

Morna was almost reminded of her days during the Blight – chase criminals in the alleyways in early evening and attend a soiree later on that night, fashionably late. Sera of the Red Jennies reminded her a lot of Daveth and would make a powerful ally. She also appeared to share Rainier’s contempt of the nobility.

            “Presenting Lord Thom Rainier and Lady Morna Mac Liath of the Inquisition,” the announcer called out as he read from the scroll, actually getting her name right.

            The Orlesians favoured bold colours and geometric designs with intricate detailing. An appropriate musical number was being played in the background and nobles swirled around the ballroom like flowers, unheeding or uncaring of the chaos in the Dales. Even the Uasal Ard wasn’t _this_ self-absorbed.

            Rainier wore midnight-hued velvet, black with a subtle shimmer of night-blue, and a polished silver mask. Compared to the Orlesian nobles, he was a finely made broadsword in a rack of bejewelled court swords. The colours suited him though and Morna was admittedly impressed with how he inserted himself into the crowd.

            Her own gown was a reversal of Rainier’s colours – night-blue with a black netted overlay – and her mask the female version of his. Morna matched her pace to his, grateful they didn’t need to enter hand in hand, and tried to keep her expression neutral. She couldn’t fake bonhomie. Normally, she hated events like this.

            “Welcome to the party, my lord,” oozed a minor courtier, accompanied by a brightly dressed noblewoman. “It gets tiresome to see the same old faces at these soirees.”

            “It’s certainly impressive,” Rainier growled urbanely. “Madame de Fer’s reputation for elegance lives up to itself.”

            “It does indeed. Are you here to see the First Enchanter? Or perhaps Duke Bastien?” The courtier was so blatant that even Morna noticed his attempts at gathering information. She nearly rolled her eyes and wished Cu was here to pee on his shoes.

            “Is it true what they say about the Inquisition?” the female courtier asked eagerly. “That Andraste Herself guided you out of the Fade?”

            “Some of the stories are exaggerated, though I believe I survived by Our Lady’s grace, direct or indirect,” Rainier responded carefully. “Undeserving sinner though I am.”

            “The deaths of the Callier family were a tragedy but in hindsight, they perhaps served a greater purpose,” the male courtier said with unctuous piety. “They set you on the path to becoming the Herald of Andraste-“

            “The Herald of Andraste. What a load of pig shit.” Another nobleman, wearing an armoured doublet and a duelling rapier, climbed down the stairs. “I know what your Inquisition is: crazed Seekers, washed-up sisters and elf-blooded bastards.”

            “You’re referring to the Right and Left Hands of the Divine, two Heroes of the Fifth Blight, the Hero of Orlais and the former Teyrna-Regent of Highever,” Rainier rasped dangerously. “I’ll grant you the load of pig shit about me though.”

            “You admit to being a coarse lowborn murderer who has set himself up as a false prophet in front of all these people?” the nobleman asked triumphantly, hand going to his blade. “If you were a man of honour, you would step outside to answer these charges-“

            Frost slowly curled its way around his torso, freezing him in place, as an elegant vision of silverite, snow-white leather and blue-silver silk descended from on high. Vivienne, Madam de Fer, was an extraordinarily beautiful woman with smooth umber skin and cold ice-blue eyes.

            “My dear Marquise. How dare you be so rude at _my_ party to _my_ guests,” she observed with poisonous sweetness.

            “Madame Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon!” the marquise begged.

            “So you should. Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?” She reached out and grasped his chin firmly.

            Then she looked at Rainier. “My Lord Thom, you’re the wounded party here. What shall I do with this foolish, foolish man?”

            Thom bowed precisely. “Madame Vivienne, he said nothing about _me_ that wasn’t true. However, he was rather insulting to Lady Morna Mac Liath, so I leave his fate in her hands.”

            _Oh, lovely. The eyes of the Imperial court on me. Just what I need._ Morna stepped past the two minor courtiers to offer a slight curtsey to the First Enchanter, showing politesse but not deference. “I don’t particularly care what happens to him, Madame Vivienne. I’ve got more important things to worry about.”

            Vivienne snapped her fingers and the Marquise coughed. “You poor, poor thing, hurling insults like a hedge chevalier and all dressed up in your aunt Solange’s best doublet. Didn’t she give you that to wear to the Grand Tourney? And to think, all the brave chevaliers who will be competing left for Markham this morning and you’re still here. Did you hope to sate your damaged pride by duelling the Herald of Andraste? Or were you hoping his blade would end your miserable existence?”

            The Marquise hung his head as quiet titters and snickers echoed around the ballroom.

            “Do run along and give your aunt my regards,” Vivienne said dismissively as she turned to face Thom and Morna. “My apologies for that bit of unpleasantness, my lord and lady.”

            “You needn’t worry about that, Madame Vivienne,” Thom assured her. “Thank you for the invitation to your party.”

            “You’re welcome. Shall the three of us retire to the colonnade?” At her statement, the crowd began to buzz.

            “It would be our honour. I’ve heard that the gardens of Duke Bastien’s estate are magnificent and to view them by moonlight a pleasure,” Morna said with as much grace as she could manage. Maker, but she hated bantering with Orlesians.

            Vivienne nodded and led them out of the ballroom to a row of covered marble columns that overlooked a garden that was as magnificent as rumour painted it. Morna took some time to appreciate the view and a rare moment of stillness in the chaos of the Breach.

            “I otherwise hope the soiree has been enjoyable?” Vivienne asked politely. Morna turned back to face her.

            “It certainly hasn’t lacked for entertainment,” Thom observed ironically. “Is that Marquise going to be a problem?”

            “His aunt is the vicomtesse of Mont-de-Glace, a powerless but respected and pious family,” Vivienne said, removing her mask. “Alphonse has embarrassed her for the last time and will likely be disowned. He’ll likely run off to the Dales to die with honour or reclaim a shred of dignity.”

            Morna and Thom took off their masks. In the protocol of Orlais, as Leliana taught her, this meant Vivienne intended to speak frankly.

            “You both handled yourselves better than I expected in there,” the mage continued. “I was half-expecting to have to kill that fool for the insult.”

            “If stupidity were grounds for execution, I’d have not lived to see the Grand Tourney at eighteen,” Thom said with a sigh. “Besides, the insult was to Lady Morna, not myself.”

            Vivienne reached out to take his marked hand. “ _This_ bestows power and rank upon you, Lord Rainier, whether you like it or not. Even Maferath found redemption in the end.”

            “I know. But I have no wish to push my luck or forget what I’ve done,” Thom replied.

            “A wise thought. The deaths of Vincent Callier and his family were tragic but you are now our only hope.” Vivienne’s expression was stern. “But if you don’t use the power, you will be used by it.”

            “She’s right,” Morna agreed quietly. “People look to you for salvation and that gives you power. Remember what you were – but don’t let it poison your future actions. We haven’t even closed the Breach yet, let alone found the ones responsible for it.”

            Thom nodded. “You’re right.”

            “Of course we are, dear.” Vivienne smiled with conscious arrogance. “But I invited you here for a specific purpose.”

            “To help us,” Morna said softly. “Your reputation for using your magic in service to the people of Thedas is known far and wide.”

            “Precisely.” Vivienne studied her thoughtfully. “You were going to attend the University of Orlais, weren’t you?”

            “Yes. Markham’s too far away and I’m sure you know my history in Denerim is… awkward.” Morna shrugged helplessly. “’Knowledge is the greatest weapon in the hands of anyone who knows how to wield it’.”

            “My maiden speech to the Imperial Court as Court Enchanter.” Vivienne smiled slightly. “I have access to several collections of rare books. I’ll see what I can arrange as personal recompense for your injured honour, my lady. Alphonse should have known better and I should have made certain he didn’t enter the party with a weapon.”

            “Thank you.” Morna inclined her head.

            Vivienne took a deep breath. “I can bring the resources of the remaining Circle mages, my knowledge of politics and the Imperial Court, and my own considerable power as a mage to the Inquisition.”

            “And in return?” Thom asked.

            “I get to stand in the face of chaos and choose my own fate,” Vivienne responded calmly.

            Thom nodded. “I can respect that, Madame Vivienne. Ah… will you be coming to Haven with us? It’s a bit rougher than here.”

            “I can sleep in the dirt and mud if I must,” Vivienne said coolly.

            “We have beds,” Morna assured her. “Private quarters, unless you bring a personal pavilion, may be a different matter.”

            “So long as my roommate isn’t obnoxious, I can cope,” Vivienne sighed. “When do we leave?”

            “In two days, Madame Vivienne.” Thom squared his heavy shoulders. “I should warn you, we’ll be travelling with a rather… earthy character.”

            “Sera of the Red Jennies?” Vivienne asked amusedly. “If she pranks me, I will return the favour.”

            “At least the trip back won’t be boring,” Morna observed ruefully.

            “No, my dear, it won’t be.” Vivienne’s tone was prophetic. “Great things are beginning.”


	8. The Teyrn of Highever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and the mention of war crimes.

 

Vivienne wound up sharing with Morna, which pushed Adan into close quarters with Rion the Alchemist, which produced some astonishing shouting matches because their approaches to alchemy were utterly different. Otherwise, the First Enchanter was a better sport about the facilities at Haven than Thom expected.

            As if she and Sera opened a floodgate, messages of alliance and support in return for consideration poured in. There was a mercenary group called the Bull’s Chargers, led by a Tal-Vashoth Qunari called the Iron Bull, who were at the Storm Coast waiting to be hired. The mages wanted an alliance at Redcliffe Village, which Leliana supported. Cassandra and Cullen still wanted him to approach the templars. Josephine was neutral on the matter, only stating the urgency of the situation.

            Thom, after a few days of arguments between the advisors, decided to head out to the Storm Coast. He decided to bring along Sera, Vivienne and Tamar, who was practically begging for the chance to fight with the Chosen of Andraste. He admittedly wanted to see the reaver in action.

            It was a week-long trip to the Storm Coast – and every day felt like a week. Sera and Vivienne sniped at each other, Tamar was contemptuous of the pair of them, and it rained the whole fucking time. If Andraste wanted to punish him for his myriad sins, She was doing a damn good job of it.

            At least they worked together as a team when some idiot bandits attacked near Waking Sea. Thom barely had time to draw his sword before the brigands were frozen, shattered, carved into collops and turned into pincushions. He sheathed his weapon, nodding in satisfaction to the women, and nudged Steadfast into a canter.

            Scout Harding’s round cheerful face was almost as welcome as the rare spot of sunshine. The news she brought – scouts disappearing to the north – was not. If it wasn’t for the sound of battle beneath the cliffs, he would have gone in search of them immediately. However, a young voice crying out “For Highever and the Maker!” got his attention and he was sliding down a narrow path cut into the cliff within a moment.

            Cremisius Aclassi, the Tevinter soldier that carried the message with an offer of the Chargers’ services, was fighting back to back with a heavy-shouldered youth in deep blue plated armour as a massive Qunari laid waste to his enemies with a heavy cleaver-like blade enchanted to make them explode. Soldiers in both mercenary armour and the same blue as the young noble fought against Tevinter soldiers, of all the damn things.

            “Tamar,” Thom ordered in a tight voice, “Can you please show the Tevinter mongrels pressing the Lieutenant and the young man I believe to be Lady Morna’s nephew the power of Andraste’s blessing?”

            “It will be my pleasure, Chosen of Andraste,” the reaver said cheerfully and then proceeded to cut four Tevinter soldiers in two with a single blow of her broadsword.

            Thom followed her, trusting Sera and Vivienne to harass the more powerful enemies from afar.

            The battle was soon over, Oren Cousland decapitating the last soldier with a neat blow. He preferred the greatsword and wielded it competently, if not as easily as Tamar. His armour was battered and well-worn, leaving Thom wondering just how much fighting the boy had been doing over the past few years. Morna _did_ say he’d been fostered with Arl Wulffe…

            “You live up to your reputation, the Iron Bull,” Oren said, wiping his weapon on a dead soldier’s cloak.

            “I wouldn’t be charging the fees I do if I didn’t,” the bald, bull-horned Qunari laughed.

            “True enough, though I imagine the bit of divine intervention sent our way didn’t hurt either.” Oren turned to face Thom and his allies. This close, he could see the rugged features of a man emerging from the boyish cheeks of a youth. His eyes, blue-grey like Morna’s, were far too old for his young face. The Teyrn of Highever had survived being orphaned, a prime target in a civil war and the Blight by the age of eight – and it showed.

            “You should thank the Iron Bull, Your Lordship,” Thom said gruffly. “If he hadn’t sent Lieutenant Aclassi with an offer of his company’s services, I wouldn’t be here.”

            “I’ll send you an extra cask of Valenta Red,” Oren told Bull with a grin.

            “Pfft, Montsimmard Red or go home,” Bull retorted. “You should quit being a Teyrn and join the Chargers. You’d make a great merc.”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Oren said dryly, showing an echo of his aunt’s humour.

            “Krem, how many wounded?” Bull asked of his lieutenant.

            “Five or six wounded, none dead!” Krem reported.

            “Good. Tell the throat-cutters to do their work and break out a cask of ale. We’ve won a victory and there’s a new employer who deserves the best.”

            “You’re leaving me already. I’m wounded.” The Teyrn sounded more amused than hurt, though.

            “Get Stitches to check it out.”

            Oren looked back to Thom. “Apologies. I wanted to know why the hell parties of Tevinter soldiers were landing in my teynir and travelling down to Redcliffe.”

            “Tevinters in Redcliffe, where the mages are?” Vivienne asked sharply. “That isn’t good news, Teyrn Cousland.”

            “It isn’t, especially since Arl Teagan fucked off to Denerim with his tail between his legs like a nug caught in sunlight,” Oren agreed sourly. Then he flushed in embarrassment. “Apologies, my lady. I haven’t been in polite company since I ascended to the Teyrn’s seat.”

            “Don’t worry,” Tamar said with a grin. “We won’t tell your aunt. You fight well, by the way.”

            “Thank you,” Oren said with a slight bow. “As you have guessed, I am Teyrn Oren Cousland of Highever. I’m assuming you’re with the Inquisition?”

            Thom stepped forward and bowed. “Thom Rainier, Your Lordship. The reaver is Tamar, the lady is First Enchanter Vivienne of the Imperial Court and the archer is Sera.”

            “Herald of Andraste.” Oren’s bow was deeper this time. “Thank you for saving our lives. Those Tevinter bastards were tenacious.”

            “You’re welcome. The support of Highever for the Inquisition is much appreciated; returning the favour’s the least I can do.”

            Bull’s people brought over some casks of ale and a few salvaged crates to serve as seats, allowing everyone to sit down. “There’s raiders to the north who’ve possibly killed or kidnapped Inquisition soldiers,” Thom explained to the two men. “So I won’t be able to stay long.”

            “Not raiders,” Oren answered. “The Blades of Hessarian. Crazy bunch of bastards but if you can kill their current leader, they’ll follow you to the death.”

            “I seem to have a knack for recruiting religious, uh, warriors,” Thom observed, looking at Tamar. “You know how to challenge them?”

            “Mercy’s Crest – the Sword of Mercy made from serpentstone and strung on deepstalker leather,” Oren promptly said. “Had been giving some thought to recruiting them myself, but… well. After everything that happened in Highever during the civil war, I don’t dare threaten my teynir’s stability in a time of crisis.”

            “I see you share your aunt’s knowledge of esoteric trivia,” Vivienne said approvingly.

            “I’m not the scholar she is, but I once saw her try to swing a broadsword. She landed flat on her ass and Brosca thought it was hilarious.” Oren’s expression was too old for his young face. “She’s with the Inquisition then?”

            “She is, Teyrn Cousland,” Thom confirmed.

            “Makes sense. Aunty Morna never could stand by and wring her hands during a crisis.” Oren accepted a mug of ale from Krem, who sat down next to his commander. “If I’d met you before the disaster at the Conclave, Rainier, I’d have gutted you like a trout for what you did to the Callier kids. I was too young to kill the mongrels who murdered my family but now…”

            “I’d deserve it,” Thom admitted softly.

            “Yes. But now you’re the only one who can close the rifts. I think you’ll earn your redemption several times over.” Oren’s eyes hardened. “But if anything befalls my aunt, you’d better die closing the Breach, or I will nail you to a tree with your guts wrapped around a bramble bush for the scavengers.”

            “I like him,” Tamar said cheerfully. “Even if he just did threaten the Chosen of Andraste.”

            “I don’t think it was a threat, Tamar. I think it was a promise,” Sera said softly. “Typical of a noble though.”

            Oren regarded the ragged elf bleakly. “My aunt is the last of my close family, Lady Sera. The rest were murdered by soldiers like Rainier on the orders of Rendon Howe.”

            “Little people die all the time when nobles fight,” Sera countered. “The Callier kids, your family – happens to people like us all the time.”

            “I know.” Oren sighed. “The Mage-Templar War is grinding a lot of people in the middle into the dirt. And now we have a hole in the sky shitting demons everywhere. The Inquisition’s going to have to fix even more problems than the Wardens did during the Blight before they can touch the Breach.”

            He drank his ale in one long pull and got to his feet. “The Iron Bull, I’ll send your people a bonus through my banker.”

            “No worries,” Bull said. “Remember what I said about quitting your job and becoming a merc.”

            “I will.” Oren looked at the Inquisition agents. “I’d stay but I need to get back to Highever proper. Send my love to Aunty Morna.”

            “We will,” Thom promised.

            The Teyrn waved off attempts to bow from the others and disappeared into the crowd, collecting his soldiers.

            “Pretty decent as nobles go, though there’s a nasty streak of justice in him,” Bull observed quietly. “Makes sense, seeing as what he went through as a kid.”

            “I’ll warn the Red Jennies to be careful in Highever,” Sera murmured.

            Thom pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, I’m the Thom Rainier who killed a General and his family on behest of a petty noble in the Orlesian civil war.”

            Bull shrugged massive shoulders. “Not my problem. Basically with what’s going on, want to hire out the Chargers to you. You won’t just get Krem and the others, you’ll get me as a frontline bodyguard and warrior.”

            “Money’s a bit tight,” Thom admitted.

            “Josephine can handle the sum if you’ll accept a percentage of loot to make up the rest,” Vivienne told the Qunari.

            “Can do.” Bull sighed and looked at his feet. “Before you say yes, something I should tell you. Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?”

            “Some sort of Qunari thing, right?” Thom asked carefully.

            “We’re the organisation that protects the Qunari,” Bull answered bluntly. “I’m one.”

            “If you’re a spy, my dear, why on earth would you blow your cover?” Vivienne asked with an arched eyebrow.

            “Hiding my secret from something called the _Inquisition_?” Bull snorted. “Besides, I like redheads.”

            “Leliana prefers Antivans,” Vivienne drawled amusedly.

            That put the Nightingale’s relationship with Josephine in a new light. Thom supposed it made sense, as both were women of fashion and taste. “I appreciate the candour, but why should I hire you?”

            “Because the Ben-Hassrath is shitting itself over the Breach,” Bull answered. “I can share reports and make sure the information that goes back isn’t _too_ dangerous.”

            “Better the Qunari I know than the one I don’t, I suppose,” Thom agreed with a sigh. “You and your men are in, the Iron Bull. Just know that if you betray me and mine, you’ll be lucky if Leliana kills you.”

            “Fair deal.” Bull looked to Krem. “Lieutenant, take about thirty men and clear out the beach until you see the Blades of Hessarian’s camp. Get some serpentstone and deepstalker leather while you’re at it.”

            “Yes, chief.” Krem saluted and stood up.

            “Tamar, head back to the camp and tell Harding we’ve hired the Bull’s Chargers,” Thom ordered the reaver.

            “Of course.” She stood up and was soon climbing the hill.

            Thom turned back to the Qunari spy. “So, tell me what your soldiers can do.”

            He hoped he didn’t regret this choice.


	9. A Discussion Over Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and war crimes.

 

Morna rubbed the crick in her neck and cursed the candles – rendered from poor quality tallow – and the ink – rendered from the ash of ram bones, amongst other things – that she was forced to use. Once a week, on top of her academic studies, she had to go through the accounts presented to her by Adan, Minaeve, Seggrit, Flissa and Threnn. The Inquisition was growing in fame, which brought in the desperate and faithful, and Haven was bursting at the seams. The village had never held more than a hundred people, even during pilgrimage season, and now there were roughly four hundred soldiers and almost a thousand civilians here at any one time. Balancing the demands on the facilities and environment fell to her because she’d volunteered for it.

            “We need a new base of operations – or another camp,” she said aloud. The frustrating thing was that everyone was so focused on the immediate threat of the Breach that they were ignoring the long-term effects of their actions.

            Just looking at the dysfunctional state of Fereldan politics after the Fifth Blight should convince a number of people how bad an idea that was.

            “We need to close the Breach,” Cassandra, who was passing by her office, said, demonstrating Morna’s point.

            “Yes. If we could make a decision on which side of the Mage-Templar War we approach, we could get on with it. But we’ve got too many people crammed into too tight a space, Cassandra. The local wildlife is on the verge of depletion and…” Morna waved her hand when the Seeker frowned. “Never mind. Just closing the Breach is the first step. After that, we need to find out who really killed the Divine.”

            “I suspect that the attempt at closing the Breach will draw the attention of the guilty party,” Cassandra agreed grimly.

            “Precisely.” Morna rubbed her temples. “Unless you have practical suggestions for how to feed and clothe nearly fourteen hundred people, I can’t spare the time to chat.”

            “Have faith in the Maker and He will provide,” Cassandra said piously.

            “Unless the Maker can make me like Eileen and give me the ability to turn stones into bread, we’re going to have some problems with relying on Him,” Morna retorted.

            “Seventeen hundred people,” Cassandra said suddenly. “I have word from Scout Harding. The Bull’s Chargers will be arriving tomorrow and they are about three hundred in total.”

            Morna’s response was not fit for a well-born lady’s ears. A good thing she and Cassandra, while technically well-born, were far from what was considered ladylike.

            “Have faith in the Maker,” Cassandra repeated. “You made do with less in the Blight. I am sure you’ll manage.”

            The Seeker left before Morna could answer. Probably a good thing, because between aching eyes and aching head, she wouldn’t have been particularly polite or diplomatic.

            “Lady Morna, may I have a word with you?” Of course, Solas had to show up.

            “If you can conjure food from the Fade, I would put your name forward in a prayer to the deity of your choice,” Morna said fervently.

            “Not quite, I fear.” Solas folded his hands before him.

            “Take a seat if you like. These accounts won’t be balanced in five minutes and if _you’ve_ ventured into the Chantry, it must be pretty important.” Morna closed the account book and set it aside, a precaution from long years of emergency meetings in a study. “I apologise for being terse.”

            “We are all under stress.” Solas took a seat and regarded her with those blue-grey eyes. “As for food, we have grain and fruit, do we not?”

            “Barley and oats, mostly, and winter apples. Why?”

            Solas smiled slightly. “I was walking through the Fade when I came across the shadow of an old elven spell. I believe, if we can clear the snow from a patch of land and plant some seeds, I – and a few other mages – will be able to accelerate the growth of grain and fruit.”

            “Apples,” Morna immediately said. “Grain takes up too much space for the food supplied, whereas we can clear the druffalo field up north and plant apple trees. Might even be able to put the civilians to work tending them, which will reduce the strain on facilities.”

            “And give idle hands something to do,” Solas added shrewdly.

            “That too.” Morna rubbed her temples again. “Is anyone giving you trouble? I know Seggrit and a couple others have a bad habit of insulting elves despite a few high-ranking officers of the Inquisition being elven or elf-blooded.”

            “Nothing I cannot handle,” Solas assured her.

            “Not saying that to keep the peace?”

            “Truly, nothing I cannot handle.” Solas’ eyes glinted wolfishly.

            “I’m _not_ going to ask.” Morna reached for her enchanted teapot. “Tea?”

            “I detest the stuff – no offence, of course. Thank you for offering though.”

            Morna poured herself a mug of the strong black tea she preferred and added some honey disks to sweeten it. “Good idea about the seeds. I know Dalish Keepers have an affinity for sky and earth magics, but it never occurred to me that spells to accelerate the growth of crops existed.”

            “I am not Dalish despite my skill at lightning magic,” Solas said quietly.

            “I know. But my mother was and I’ve worked with a Keeper or two in my time.” Morna cradled her mug to absorb the heat. Her once-broken fingers ached in the cold, not something she let on.

            “Forgive the presumptuous question, but how did the half-human daughter of a Dalish woman become regent for the richest port in Ferelden?” Solas looked genuinely intrigued.

            “My parents were Grey Wardens. It’s rare for one Warden to have a child, but for a pair of them to do so… That’s literally only happened once before in over a thousand years of Warden history.” Morna sipped her tea. “Because being of the Grey consumes your life – in every sense of the word – they couldn’t raise me. Mother’s clan had gone north and likely wouldn’t have taken a shemlen child anyway, so Dad turned to _his_ nearest relatives, the Couslands, and got them to raise me.”

            She closed her eyes. Bryce and Eleanor had always treated her as one of their own. But even the Teyrn of Highever couldn’t alter the succession or sumptuary laws, so they had her taught as a rogue and encouraged her to study, so that she could advise Fergus when he took control of the port.

            “I was raised as one of their own and taught the same things as any member of the Uasal Ard. There were laws that even the Teyrn couldn’t get around – because Maker bloody forbid the Landsmeet address the crap that the Orlesians left in our legal system – but I was armed and armoured within an eyelash of the permitted laws, would have inherited a bannorn and thus a voice in the Landsmeet, and encouraged to learn everything I could about my mother’s culture.”

            “You are much luckier than many elf-blooded,” Solas observed neutrally.

            “I know. Maker, I _know_. I was reminded of that every day of my life.” Morna studied her tea. “Uncle Bryce and Aunt Eleanor gave me the name Cousland. If Mum and Dad had married, they’d have welcomed her into the family and to the Void with the Uasal Ard’s opinion. If the Blight had never happened, I’d likely be running a prosperous bannorn and bitching out the assholes in the Landsmeet.”

            “The massacre of Castle Cousland.” Judging by the tone of Solas’ voice, he’d gone Dreaming there. Since it played a huge part in Ferelden’s recent history, Morna couldn’t fault him.

            “Yeah. Then the Blight happened. I was one of several people who helped save Ferelden. My job was to keep Oren alive long enough so he could inherit. Too many folks wanted it otherwise, because if Anora or Alistair die, he’s the next to sit on the Mabari Throne.” Morna gulped some tea. “Cue some very ugly internal politics, assassinations, blackmail… The Landsmeet agreed that I should hold the Laurel Banner until Oren was sixteen, on the condition that I _not_ claim the Cousland name. Uncle Bryce would have been spinning in his grave, if Howe had bothered to give him one.”

            “Ah. I apologise for bringing up bad memories.” Solas sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Because I normally live an isolated life, I was unaware of the political tensions despite walking the Fade.”

            Morna nodded. “You need accurate information to base your actions on.”

            “Precisely.” Solas smiled slightly.

            “So, turnabout’s fair play. How did you become such a master of the Fade? I can think of a few moments in my life – being trapped in the Fade during the Kinloch Hold rebellion and the Blackmarsh incident – where you would have been handy to have around.” Morna held her mug, studying the elf.

            Solas’ eyebrow arched. “You were trapped in the Fade?”

            “Sloth demon trapped a bunch of the Blight Heroes – me, Alistair Theirin, Brytta Brosca, Duncan and Wynne – in a nightmare. If it wasn’t for the fact Brytta’s too damn mean and nasty to die, we would have been lost.” Morna sighed and sipped some tea. “You would have liked Wynne. She was a spirit healer who bonded with a Spirit of Faith to the point that where she nearly died, it melded with her.”

            “Symbiotic possession?” Solas sounded intrigued.

            “Yeah, like the Avvar augers and Rivaini seers practice.” She recalled something Thom had mentioned in passing. “You told Rainier that spirits become demons when their purpose is denied, right?”

            “I did.” Now the elf looked pleased. “I deal mostly with spirits of wisdom and purpose.”

            “What do they become when denied or corrupted?”

            “Pride and desire.” His voice was sad.

            Morna sighed. “And since most mages don’t learn how to deal with the Fade properly…”

            “Precisely.” Solas tilted his head. “What do you think of mages, Lady Morna?”

            “They’re people.” Morna drank some tea. “Do I believe that they need to be trained? Yes. I also believe that once they’ve shown they can interact with the Fade safely, they should have freedom of movement and association. The Circles should be schools and retreats for mages, not prisons, and the templars should remember they’re protectors, not tyrants.”

            Solas grimaced. “I am not so certain templars are capable of anything other than tyranny.”

            “Kinloch Hold happened because mages turned to blood magic. Which, of course, happened when the templars put too much pressure on the mages because of the danger they _might_ turn to blood magic. Some mages figured if they were damned, they might as well be damned in style.” Morna sighed again. “Of course, the rebellion just ‘proved’ to the authorities that the templars were right in their actions. The Mage-Templar War was going to happen sooner or later. I’m just livid, after seeing Redcliffe, that fanatics on both sides seem to think their cause justifies any and all means.”

            Solas raised an eyebrow. “This from the woman who secured her regency through assassination, blackmail and political expediency?”

            Talking to Solas was certainly interesting. “I performed every assassination myself. Uncle Bryce used to say ‘if you’re going to pass the sentence, you damn well swing the sword’. The people I blackmailed and bribed were all adults. I don’t believe in harming civilians or children – the fanatics in the Mage-Templar War have been terrorising commoners in Redcliffe, as well you know.”

            “’The ends justify many, but not all, means’?”

            “That’s one way to put it.”

            Solas nodded slowly. “What was going on in Redcliffe was atrocity. On that we can agree. What would you think if the mages gained total freedom?”

            “Everyone deserves to prove themselves.” Morna smiled crookedly. “I’d train a few templars though because everyone else also has the right to take precautions. That’s how the Mage Collective – a group of free mages who follow the Chantry laws on magic – do it. They train up non-mage warriors from their families to act as templars. I’m… not precisely sure, but non-mages from mageborn families may not need lyrium to be templars.”

            Solas rubbed his pointed chin. “That is… an interesting compromise.”

            Morna shrugged. “I’ve known good mages, bad mages, templars worthy of the name and those who should have been hung for the scum they are. Dad once said my Mum Dorf’asha was a Keeper. I could have been a mage. Hell, if I’d been dumped in the Chantry as happens to many Warden babies, I could have been a templar.”

            “Which would have no doubt altered your viewpoint on the matter,” Solas observed shrewdly.

            “Precisely.”

            The elf rose to his feet. “Thank you for the conversation. If you are interested in elven history, I will be happy to share what I have learned from the Fade with you.”

            Morna grinned at the mage. “Don’t tell me that. I may decide it’s more important than keeping the accounts and bother you when you’re trying to nap.”

            Solas chuckled. “Answering questions asked of me is always one of my great pleasures.”

            He left the study and Morna realised that he hadn’t answered her question on how he’d mastered the Fade. She leaned back in her seat and studied the papers on her desk. Solas would need to be watched – and handled – quite carefully.


	10. Meeting the Mages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism, torture, war crimes and grief/mourning. Will be going AU for In Hushed Whispers because why not?

 

Thom spent a full week on the Storm Coast, tasting rain and salt on his tongue, marked hand aching more than his bones in the cold. Returning to Haven with the Bull’s Chargers in tow was a relief from the damp – but he didn’t look forward to explaining a Ben-Hassrath’s presence in the Inquisition to the advisors. The Iron Bull was rude, crude and lewd, but the glint in his single eye was shrewd, and the Qunari rather philosophical. After a few discussions, Thom could see the appeal for some in the Qun and imagined various members of the Inquisition as Qunari. Cullen, Cassandra, Josephine and even Morna would fit right in; Tamar, Sera, Varric and Solas… not so much.

            Word had been sent ahead and the Chargers were assigned to the hastily cleared area between old Taigen’s cottage, turned into a storage shed, and the frozen lake. Morna was there, bundled in fine brown wool edged with rabbit fur, and her expression was carefully neutral.

            “Please tell me you have your own rations,” she told Bull.

            The Qunari looked down at the small, fine-boned woman. “We do. For a month.”

            “Praise the Maker, the Qun, the Evanuris and any other holy thing I don’t know,” she said fervently. “I’m Morna Mac Liath and, amongst other things, I handle the day-to-day needs of the Inquisition.”

            Thom looked closer at the ash-blonde elf-blood and realised she was looking strained. “We hired the Bull’s Chargers to handle things bigger than what our strike teams couldn’t, but otherwise on the same principle.”

            Morna nodded and offered her hand to Bull. “Nice to meet you.”

            “And you.” His massive paw engulfed hers. “Arishok, who was once the Sten who fought the Blight with you and yours, spoke well of you.”

            Her brow shot up. “Sten’s now Arishok?”

            “He is.”

            Thom took a deep breath. “Bull’s Ben-Hassrath. He came clean to me because Leliana would have found out.”

            “Consider me something of a discreet hand from the Ben-Hassrath,” Bull rumbled. “Everyone’s shitting themselves over the Breach.”

            “Given the Qun’s opinion of magic, I can imagine,” Morna observed dryly. “If I hadn’t been bound by duties to Highever and my nephew, I might have hopped on the ship to Par Vollen with Arishok-that-was-Sten after the Blight.”

            “From what your Ben-Hassrath file says, you would have done well amongst the Qun,” Bull agreed.

            “Ten years ago, perhaps. Now, things are a bit different.” Morna tightened her cloak and looked to Thom. “Good luck with the explanations. I’ll take the Chargers to their area and then meet you back at the Chantry.”

            “Thanks,” Thom said wryly.

            They headed through the camp and up to Leliana’s tent. The spymaster was writing up reports and sending them out with birds. “You’re late,” the redhead observed.

            “Fashionably so,” Bull replied. “I’m-“

            “I know, Hissrad.” The bard strode forward and regarded the spy with a gimlet gaze. “While you are with the Inquisition, I will be your Ariqun. I’m allowing your presence because indirect contact with the Ben-Hassrath is useful and better the agent you know than the one you don’t. If harm comes to my people through you and yours, you will wish you’d been made Viddath-bas before I am done with you.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” the Bull responded softly.

            “Good.” Leliana nodded curtly before turning to Thom. “We need to make a decision on which side to approach.”

            “Understood.” Thom sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I clean up first?”

            “Of course.” She returned to her reports.

            “That is a scary woman,” Bull observed as they left the tent.

            “I’m glad she’s on our side,” Thom agreed. “Go check on your soldiers. I need a wash and some clean clothing.”

            “Understood, boss.” Bull nodded and left.

            Half an hour later, Thom was juggling a bowl of stew and mug of cider as he entered the room they used as a meeting space in the Chantry. Of the advisors, only Cullen was missing; the others were sitting around the map, holding mugs of tea or eating from the cold food on the sideboard.

            “Apostates, heretics and now Qunari,” Cassandra said flatly. “What else will you be adding to the Inquisition?”

            “A jester to make you laugh,” Thom retorted.

            Varric snickered. “He’s got a point, Seeker.”

            “We have a harlequin but no jester, I fear,” Leliana said wryly. “Cassandra, I’ve already put safeguards in place to handle Hissrad.”

            “Have faith in the Maker,” Morna suggested mildly.

            “You’re not funny, Morna,” the Seeker said with narrowed eyes.

            “I was simply responding as you did when I was talking about the strain on Haven’s resources.”

            Thom sighed and took a seat next to Morna. He’d eat and hopefully Cullen would get here soon to start the meeting.

            “The votes amongst the Inner Circle have been taken and it’s fifty-fifty between mages or templars,” Josephine said, writing something down on her clipboard. “That means, Herald, you will need to cast the deciding vote on who we approach.”

            “Could you have let me finish my bowl of stew _before_ we started talking?” Thom groused.

            “I was briefing you.”

            “My lady Josephine, I’ve been riding through rain, sea spray and snow for the last bloody week. Before I can make any kind of decision, I need to speak to the mages at Redcliffe,” Thom responded. “Before I do that, I need a day or so to recover.”

            He looked to Vivienne. “I’d like you to come with me. You know the personalities involved. Sorry to drag you out again, but at least the weather’s better in Redcliffe and we can take rooms at the inn.”

            “A Fereldan village inn. How quaint,” the First Enchanter observed dryly.

            “The Gull and Lantern leaks less than our cabin,” Morna said ruefully. “It did a few years ago, at least.”

            “I will come, of course.” Vivienne folded her hands primly. “Just because I prefer my comforts doesn’t mean I can’t do without them.”

            Thom had to admit that, even if the woman grated on his nerves in other ways.

            “Varric, you up for a trip? Dwarves are magic-resistant and you could talk a Chantry sister out of her robes if so inclined.”

            The storyteller nodded. “Sure.”

            “I’ll come too, if I may,” Morna offered quietly. “If the mages have ejected Arl Teagan, I know at least one entrance into Castle Redcliffe.”

            “Works for me.” Truth be told, Thom was rather glad to have her along.

            “Thank you.” Morna paused and added, “I admit, I want to get away from Haven and make the camp someone else’s problem for a few days.”

            “I will assign someone to it,” Josephine promised.

            Cullen entered shortly after, pouring himself some ale and sitting down. “Has a decision been reached?”

            “No,” Leliana said. “The Herald wants to speak to the mages directly first.”

            “We need people who can suppress magic, not increase it.” Cullen drained his mug. “Contact the templars.”

            “Hearing both sides of the story is standard diplomatic procedure,” Josephine protested.

            “Cullen, we need intelligence from Redcliffe Village anyway,” Leliana pointed out. “What harm a single meeting with the mages?”

            “Fine. But I don’t like it.” Cullen ran a hand through his curly blond hair.

            “You’ve made _that_ clear from the start,” Josephine said with a hint of acerbity.

            “The templars are the better option,” Cassandra insisted.

            “Agreed,” Vivienne added.

            “Magic’s just wrong. Don’t like templars, but they’re better than nothing,” Sera agreed.

            “Hey, it never hurts to hear what the other guy’s offering,” Varric countered.

            “Mages desire their freedom,” Solas said calmly. “They deserve it.”

            “Enough!” Thom barked suddenly. If this was what had been going on while he was absent, no wonder Haven seethed with tension. “Listening to only one side of a story – and being a selfish git – got me into killing the Callier family. I’m not rushing into a decision until I speak to the mages. Is that clear?”

            “As crystal,” Cullen said tightly.

            “Good. Everyone who’s coming with me, get some rest and make sure you’re ready to leave two days from now.” Thom finished his cider. “As I will be doing.”

            No clear leader had emerged from the advisors and Thom knew you couldn’t end a crisis like the Breach with a committee. But by the same token, he feared taking control of the Inquisition because… well… power corrupted. And he’d been corrupted before.

            What a bloody mess they were in.

…

With camps now set up along the pilgrim’s road, the group made it to Redcliffe Village in five days at a decent pace. Morna was glad to be back in the temperate valley of Ferelden again and gladder to be away from the tension between the advisors. If someone didn’t step up and become leader soon, the Inquisition would be helpless against the forces behind the Breach.

            They left their horses at Redcliffe Farms and walked to the village. The gates were still barred – but now a rift with strange effects caused Thom to grab his hand and hiss with pain. Vivienne was studying it intently as the Herald straightened up, eyes hard.

            “Something’s going on here. This is no typical rift.”

            As they approached, the soldiers guarding the rift fell back and Thom’s hand began to spark. Demons started to manifest – Vivienne gestured imperiously and the half-formed terror nearest to them was banished back to the Fade. Morna and Varric readied their weapons as the rest coalesced into being.

            “Andraste’s ass, I’m sick of demons,” Varric said as he shot one. “The sooner we close that Breach…”

            “Hear, hear,” Morna agreed as she shot another.

            Two waves of demons before Thom was able to banish the rift. There were patches where he moved slower and others where he was almost a blur. What the hell was going on?

            The soldiers cheered and the gates were opened, but Vivienne looked troubled. “Temporal distortion,” she murmured. “That’s new to the rifts.”

            “Lovely, they’re evolving,” Morna muttered. “I swear, if the mages have been fucking around with the rift energy…”

            “Then we’ll go to the templars,” Thom rumbled.

            An Inquisition scout came running up. “Ser Herald, the mages are here but…”

            “But?” Vivienne asked.

            “They claim they never invited us to meet with them.”

            “That’s bullshit,” Varric said flatly. “Grand Enchanter Fiona invited us in Val Royeaux.”

            “Greetings, agent of the Inquisition.” A lean elf in furred mage robes approached them. “Your presence comes as a surprise to us.”

            “I see,” Thom said calmly. “Can we speak to your leaders?”

            “Of course.” The elf turned away. “They are at the inn.”

            “Something’s very wrong here,” Morna observed, stating the bloody obvious.

            “Agreed. Be on your guard.”

            They wound their way through the still-crowded village and Morna was alarmed to see more mages than churls in the crowd. What in the name of the Maker was going on?

            “If the mages drove Arl Teagan out of Redcliffe, there’s going to be hell to pay,” she said softly. “Anora and Alistair are sympathetic, but this will be the last straw.”

            Thom grunted as they climbed the hill, walking past the monument to the Heroes of Ferelden. Last time Morna was here, she’d been at the damn thing’s unveiling.

            “The Fade energy seems very strange here,” Vivienne murmured.

            “If time’s distorting, I bet it does,” Morna agreed.

            Inside the Gull and Lantern, a few mages in fine robes waited. One of them was Fiona. “Why are you here?” she asked with a frown.

            “You invited us here in Val Royeaux,” Thom growled. “Unless you’ve got a twin or learned to copy yourself.”

            “I’ve not been to Val Royeaux since before the war began.” Fiona frowned. “Yet…”

            The slender, grey-haired elf straightened herself. “I fear as one indentured to a magister, I cannot negotiate on behalf of myself.”

            “Fiona, dear, your dementia is showing,” Vivienne drawled.

            “What do you mean by ‘magister’?” Thom asked.

            “The mages had no hope after the Conclave,” Fiona responded with a sigh. “Magister Gereon Alexius brought us the news and offered us sanctuary in Tevinter in return for a decade of indenture.”

            “…Selling yourself to a Tevinter Magister is one bloody thing,” Morna observed in disbelief, “But selling yourselves down to the last bloody apprentice is the most idiotic fucking thing I’ve heard of since Loghain decided to start a fucking civil war in the middle of a fucking Blight.”

            “There was no hope for peace,” Fiona protested.

            “Ah, Inquisition.”

            The Tevene accent raised Morna’s hackles and she spun around to face a weathered man in magister robes accompanied by a younger version of himself. “By the laws of Ferelden, you have no legal right to offer indenture to anyone or accept an offer from them,” she said grimly.

            The magister stepped back in surprise. “Does not Ferelden have bound apprentices?”

            “Only between Fereldan and Fereldan. You aren’t Fereldan, most of the mages aren’t Fereldan and therefore, you have broken the law,” she countered acidly.

            “And you are?” the magister asked snidely.

            “Morna Mac Liath, Hero of the Fifth Blight, former Teyrna-Regent of Highever and Seneschal of the Inquisition,” she answered. “Who are you when you’re at home?”

            “Magister Gereon Alexius of the Tevinter Imperium.” He bowed floridly. “And this is my son Felix.”

            Morna studied Felix with narrowed eyes. He was sweating and pale with dark bruises under his eyes. _Looks like Blight sickness._

Then the magister collected himself. “If I understand correctly, you have no legal standing yourself in Ferelden,” he observed.

            “True enough. But as a freewoman of Ferelden, I have the right to know the law, and make sure that others know it as well.” Morna bared her teeth in nothing that could be called a smile. “We don’t keep slaves in the land of Calenhad. The last magister who tried – Caladrius, his name was – wound up on the wrong end of my daggers.”

            “She’s right, Father,” Felix said softly. “We should go home.”

            “No, Felix-“

            The door opened, cutting the magister off, and everyone looked around to see a handsome, tawny-skinned man with dashingly styled black hair and the most well-groomed moustache she’d ever seen enter. “You should listen to your son, Alexius,” he advised in an educated Tevene accent. “It’s not too late to end this.”

            “Dorian,” Alexius breathed. “You know why I have to do this. Felix will die-“

            “Find a Warden,” Morna suggested acidly. “The Joining’s no picnic but with Blight sickness, it’s the only hope of survival.”

            “I will not lose my son and heir to the Grey!” Alexius reached inside his robes for something. “I just have to destroy the Herald-“

            Thom tackled him, hand blazing with energy, as Dorian reached for his staff. Reality warped around them and Morna knew no more.


	11. The Ruin of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, torture and war crimes. Moderately AU In Hushed Whispers that follows a fair chunk of canon, but diverges in places.

 

Thom landed in knee-high water, the mage – Dorian – beside him cursing up a blue streak that impressed even the hardened soldier. “Where are we?”

            “Redcliffe… I think.” Dorian’s face was ashen beneath his tawny hue. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t how I wanted to make contact.”

            Rubbing his hand, Thom sighed. Around them, the walls were stone, and the whole cellar smelt dank and mildewy. “Nothing we can do. What was Alexius going to do?”

            “Succinctly, try to alter the passage of time and erase you from existence,” Dorian explained, grimacing as they waded through the brackish water. “Highly theoretical magic hitherto thought impossible. Alexius and I always did like a challenge though, and Felix had run the numbers so many times we managed to develop a prototype.”

            “Your friend had Blight sickness.”

            “I know. And that’s how the Venatori cult – charming lot who dream of recreating the ancient glory of Tevinter – got their grip on him, I suppose.” Dorian sounded sorrowful. “The Alexius I knew once wanted to make Tevinter a better place, not go down the same path as a thousand bloody idiots before him.”

            It had never occurred to Thom that there might be Tevinter mages who wanted their homeland to be anything other than a blood-soaked enslaving hellhole.  “I’m sorry. Once we figure out what happened, I’ll see what can be done for him. But it’s either the Wardens or death.”

            “I know.”

            They opened the cellar door and climbed the stairs to another door. When that one opened, it revealed two startled warriors in Tevinter armour. “Blood of the Elder One!” the nearest blurted, reaching for his sword.

            He burst into flame as Thom ran the other through. Choking, gasping, the guard sounded his death rattle before glowing with a sullen purple light.

            “You strike me as a competent warrior, but we may need extra muscle on the way,” Dorian said grimly.

            “Can’t say as I _like_ necromancy but… well, we got Sidony, who’s a Mortalitisi mage,” Thom sighed.

            “I restrict necromancy to the battlefield and people who are trying to kill me,” Dorian assured him.

            “Hope you stay on my side then,” Thom muttered. “Let’s go.”

            They walked along an endless tunnel lit only by dim fish-oil torches and the unholy glow of red lyrium at the far end. “Watch out for the lyrium,” Thom advised as they neared it. “It’s corrupted.”

            “The red lyrium from Kirkwall?” Dorian looked intrigued. Then he shook his head. “No. Bad idea, Dorian.”

            “Meredith Stannard became some kind of brass statue according to Varric,” Thom said, wondering what had happened to his companions.

            They passed the lyrium, the malevolent mineral hot on Thom’s skin, and emerged into a dungeon complex of some description. An elven mage, burning-eyed with glowing scarlet veins, rocked back and forth claiming how Andraste blessed him.

            “Good Maker, what happened to him?” Dorian asked in horror.

            “The lyrium,” Thom said grimly. “It’s bad.”

            He drew his sword and slid it in between the bars, up into the mage’s heart. The elf died instantly, his tortured face easing.

            “Couldn’t leave him like that,” he said gruffly.

            “No, you couldn’t.” Beside Dorian, the walking corpse crumpled into ash.

            They pressed on, finding more living guards that were dispatched, and another cell complex. Bound to a red lyrium cluster was Fiona, her voice thin and reedy. Whatever foolish decision the woman had made, she didn’t deserve this.

            “What happened?” Thom asked in horror.

            “You died, Thom Rainier. You died and the Elder One conquered the world.” Fiona’s eyes were bright with madness.

            “Do you know what year this is?” Dorian asked, eyes narrowed.

            “Harvestmere, 9:42…” Fiona sighed and laid her head against the lyrium that grew out of her.

            “Looks like that time magic of yours was more than theoretical,” Thom observed.

            “I wish to the Maker it hadn’t been,” the mage responded in a sickened voice. “Grand Enchanter, what did they do to you?”

            “Put lyrium in me. It grows inside my blood. Then they will mine my corpse for more.” She sighed again. “Please go. I don’t want to see any more ghosts.”

            Dorian grasped Thom’s wrist and drew him away. The crystal had covered most of Fiona’s body and so no clean strike could be found for his sword.

            In the other dungeon, they found Vivienne and Varric with the red eyes and veins of lyrium poisoning. “Hello dear,” the First Enchanter said with brittle hauteur. “You’re looking good for a corpse.”

            “My beauty therapist’s a Mortalitisi,” Thom said, the attempt at humour falling flat. “Can you fight?”

            “Yes.”

            Thom fished out the key he found from a dead guard and unlocked their cells. Much to his surprise, Vivienne’s staff and Varric’s Bianca were in a chest within the same room. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to stop this Elder One,” he said thickly.

            Dorian looked up from where he was examining the red lyrium. “We may be able to,” the mage said. “If we can reach Alexius and the prototype he used to throw us forward in time, I can reverse the spell and send us back to ’41.”

            Varric cocked Bianca. “Let’s do it. Not like we have any other hope.”

            With reinforcements, they were able to press upwards through the prison complex. Thom’s hand ached from more than holding a shield and blocking blows from soldiers who wanted to die. “Redcliffe Castle, I assume?” he eventually asked.

            “Yes.” Vivienne’s voice was bleak.

            “What happened to Lady Morna?”

            The two exchanged glances, shaking their heads in clear refusal to answer the question.

            Thom’s heart clenched. If these two, who’d suffered beyond measure, didn’t want him to know what happened to Morna-

            “I will kill Alexius. And I will kill the Elder One,” he vowed grimly.

            “No one can kill the Elder One, dear. He has the power of a god.” Vivienne sighed. “Cullen besieged the place twice. Ferelden three times. Then the Elder One arrived with an army of demons.”

            “Then when we go back in time, I’ll kill Alexius,” Thom promised.

            They heard the sound of someone being tortured, a rough male voice demanding that the sufferer deny Andraste. “I will not!” Mother Giselle cried out.

            Thom rammed his way through the rotting oak door and drove the torturer onto a spike of red lyrium. Then he spun around, slamming the heavy steel shield on his left arm down on the head of the assistant, who died instantly.

            He turned to face the cleric and knew it was too late to save her. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

            “Andraste preserved you,” she murmured. “You will make it right again…”

            She died and Thom felt a new surge of rage. He would end this in one way or another.

            “Fasta vass,” Dorian cursed softly. “Alexius, how could you…?”

            “Darling, no one cares about Alexius,” Vivienne said acidly. “What he has done to the world is the exact reason why we needed the Circles.”

            Thom grunted. “We press on. Our only hope is to make sure this never happens.”

            “Hear, hear,” Varric agreed.

            The next cell was locked and the distinct noise of someone being slapped echoed through the corridor. “Talk!”

            The response, muted as it was by the thick door, was distinctly Morna’s and harsh in its denial, though Thom didn’t know what it meant.

            Dorian’s teeth flashed white in the darkness as he grinned. “I didn’t think anyone could do that with the remains of Urthemiel and the holy ashes of Andraste.”

            Thom was too busy unlocking the door with the prison key to find humour. His hand tightened on the grip of his shield. Whatever had been done to Morna-

            The torturer spun around, rage on his face, and a ravaged thing with the blue-grey eyes of the elf-blood lifted her legs – being chained to the ceiling by her arms – and kicked him onto the sword Thom raised to kill the mongrel.

            “Fucking amateur,” she spat in disgust. “Howe’s men were at least twice as skilled.”

            Thom looted the corpse of the Venatori and freed her from her chains. “My lady-“

            “Don’t. Ghost, walking corpse or hallucination, just don’t.” Morna drew herself up, trembling with rage. “Give me a weapon.”

            Varric handed her a pair of daggers he took from earlier enemies and the rogue gave a terrible toothless smile.

            “Plan is to reach Alexius, reverse the time spell and make sure this never happens,” Thom said, turning away from Morna.

            “Works for me. Dreadfully sorry about making Alexius do this.” Morna’s voice was falsely light.

            “He would have done this regardless,” Dorian sighed. “Or tried to.”

            “I made him act before we were ready. We could have gone to the templars.” They reached a double door. “Brace yourselves. Outside isn’t very pretty anymore.”

            Before they reached the outside, they had to fight through a few more cellars involving demons and Venatori. Scattered pieces of writing around the area revealed details about the past year that horrified Thom. He would end this or die in the doing.

            Then they emerged into a world where the Breach was the sky and rifts were scattered everywhere. Demons attacked and by the time they reached the other end, Thom was covered in ichor and worse, burning with wounds. He choked down a health potion from his satchel and pressed on.

            More horrors and guards awaited them. By the time they reached the doors – which needed to be unlocked with shards of red lyrium – that held the Great Hall of Redcliffe Castle, the others were stumbling and faltering. Only their rage and need to prevent this disaster from unfolding kept them going.

            Inside, Alexius and a ghoul that looked like Felix awaited them.

            “I knew you would return,” the magister said with a sigh. “All I have betrayed, all I have ruined… For nothing.”

            Thom throttled down his rage. “Give me the… whatever… this is. Dorian can reverse the spell. He can make sure this will never happen.”

            He wanted to beat Alexius’ face into a pulp with his shield to avenge his friends. But all that would do was achieve ruin. He had to stop this, no matter what.

            “Alexius, please,” Dorian said softly. “Felix is gone. He’s a ghoul. And the Elder One did nothing to help you.”

            The magister looked up bleakly. “The Elder One will stop you before you complete the spell. He already comes, sensing your presence here, Herald of Andraste.”

            Vivienne grasped her staff firmly. “Start the spell, Dorian. We three will buy you time.”

            “Alexius…” Dorian was practically pleading now.

            The magister reached within his robes and tossed out an amulet of silver and hematite. “I have lost. There is no point in fighting. You too will lose though.”

            “Thom, stand with me,” Dorian ordered. “If you move, this spell will be for nothing.”

            His hand began to spark as Vivienne and Varric strode outside and Morna took up a position inside the hall, switching from daggers to the bow she’d picked up somewhere along the line. Soon a great boom sounded, accompanied by the noises of approaching troops.

            Thom stood still even as his instincts screamed to join Vivienne and Varric, who had joined battle outside. A faint hint of green-black veiled his vision as Dorian’s hands glowed pure white.

            Eventually the Venatori broke through, tossing the lifeless corpses of his allies aside. Morna began to shoot, chanting fiercely in Old Alamarri, and each arrow brought down or crippled an enemy. But eventually, she was shot in the leg and fell to her knees, drawing her daggers. She gutted another Venatori but a demon seized her in a classic neck-breaking hold.

            Thom went to step forward but Dorian grabbed his shoulder. “If you move, we all die!”

            The world warped into green-black ripples just as Morna’s body fell limp, blue-grey eyes staring at him accusingly for failing her, for failing the world.


	12. The Fate of the Mages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death (including minors), violence, torture, fantastic racism, war crimes and classism. I tend to treat NPCs as capable of their own agency, hence the AU actions of Vivienne and (some) templars in this story.

 

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

            Dorian closed his fist, pure white light guttering and winking out between his fingers, and the amulet Alexius had thrown fell to the tavern floor with a clatter. The strange magic, green-black and tasting of ozone, faded into nothingness and Thom’s marked hand ceased to glow. Morna breathed a sigh of relief as Alexius fell to his knees with a blank look of despair on his features. Something terrible had been averted.

            “You’ve won. There’s no point in fighting.” The magister looked up in misery. “Felix-“

            “It’s alright, Father.” The Tevinter man regarded his father sadly.

            “You’ll die.”

            “We all die.” Felix looked up at Morna. “Forgive me, lady, but I have no wish to live fighting the darkspawn that killed my mother and me.”

            Morna inclined her head. “I understand. My parents were Wardens and I lived through a Blight. It’s a hard life.”

            Felix nodded, his smile a haunted thing, before looking to Dorian. “Saving the day once again?”

            The handsome mage, who Morna now realised was splattered in demon ichor just as Thom was, managed a sad quirk of the lips. “You know me. Always ruining _someone’s_ plans.”

            “And you wonder why half the Magisterium want you dead.” Felix sighed and looked away.

            Thom carefully sheathed his sword and lowered his shield, shadows and scars in his blue-steel eyes. “Felix, we have to take your father into custody. What he would have wrought…”

            “I know.” The young Tevinter sighed again.

            “No, you don’t.” Thom’s voice was flat.

            “Bad?” Morna enquired as delicately as she could manage.

            “Bad is… something of an understatement,” Dorian replied. “Suffice to say, we have a good idea of the entity behind the Breach and just how inconvenient it will be if he wins.”

            Fiona folded her arms, cheeks still scarlet from Morna’s tirade. “Now what?” she asked.

            “I suspect, Grand Enchanter, the mage rebellion’s going to be ejected from Ferelden,” Vivienne observed with relish. “You’ve violated any number of laws in the one place willing to give you sanctuary.”

            Morna sucked in a breath. “You alerted Alistair and Anora we were coming.”

            The First Enchanter inclined her head, smiling slightly. “I did, my dear. If the Herald was going to approach the mages for help in closing the Breach, I wanted them to have no choice but to do so. Throwing a landed noble out of his castle – obviously at the behest of these Tevinter cockroaches – is treason and a perfect example of why most mages can’t be trusted with freedom.”

            “I’ll have you know I’m ever so much prettier than a cockroach,” Dorian drawled.

            “And if it wasn’t for Dorian, we… would be dead. Or wishing we were dead,” Thom growled.

            He turned to Vivienne. “Did you consult with the advisors or do this on your own initiative, Madame Vivienne?”

            “On my own initiative, darling.” Vivienne was unrepentant. “The Inquisition lacks a clear leader and those three would have argued endlessly over the idea until the opportunity to act passed.”

            Thom’s fists clenched. “Since you tend to plan things two and three steps ahead, Madame, you will do the Inquisition the courtesy of informing us of your actions before you follow through with them. Understood?”

            The Orlesian mage pursed her lips before nodding slowly. “I would have informed someone with an understanding of practical politics if we’d had the time.”

            “Next time, you will make…” He paused, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “You will _take_ the time to tell us.”

            “Certainly, my dear.” Outside, trumpets rang and Morna sighed. It was the royal march. Lovely, the two members of the Uasal Ard she liked the least were here. “Prepare yourself, darling, the Theirins have arrived.”

            Morna drew herself up. She wouldn’t stare at the ground like she had something to be ashamed of.

            The doors were opened by soldiers in the uniforms of Maric’s Shield, the elite royal guard, and the Theirins sailed in regally. Both were armed and armoured, Alistair in the gilded plate that once belonged to Cailan and with Maric’s sword and shield on his back, and Anora in heavy chainmail of purest silverite washed with gold and her father’s weapons. No one dared tell the Queen not to use the sword and shield of a traitor who died at the Landsmeet. Golden-blond and striking, they looked every inch the perfect royal couple for Ferelden, and even Morna in her sourest moments conceded that they generally did a very good job as rulers.

            Bows and curtseys rippled through the crowd, beginning with Thom, and were replied with slight inclinations of the head. Blue eyes and golden-hazel studied the group, Anora’s cool and assessing, Alistair’s friendly and curious. Becoming a Prince-Consort hadn’t dulled too much of his easy-going and fundamentally spineless behaviour. Anora must be beside herself with joy.

            “Your Majesties.” It was Thom who spoke first. “The Inquisition has defeated the Tevinter plot to subvert the mages via illegal indenture through the help of Dorian and Felix. I’m glad to see Madame Vivienne’s warning reached you in good time in case we failed.”

            Alistair sighed. “Thank you… Herald of Andraste?”

            “I prefer Thom Rainier, Your Majesty.”

            “Or Warden Blackwall, I hear,” Anora noted coolly. “What a _marvellous_ coincidence that you should be the only survivor of the disaster at the Conclave.”

            “I wish I could tell you how I did,” Thom answered softly. “I only know that someone or something calling himself the Elder One is involved. It’s a lead the Inquisition will be pursuing.”

            “Ah yes, the Inquisition that has planted camps all over north-western Ferelden down to the Hinterlands,” Anora continued. “By what authority do you have the right?”

            “No recognised authority,” Thom admitted. “But if we hadn’t come through, Your Majesty, there would still be demons, rifts, bandits and renegades prowling those areas.”

            “I… will grant you that.” Anora’s steely gaze switched to Morna. “Mistress Mac Liath, would you care to explain your presence here when it was strongly suggested you take a sabbatical _away_ from Ferelden so that Oren could learn to rule on his own?”

            “I was approached by Seeker Pentaghast on behalf of Divine Justinia shortly after Oren’s fifteenth birthday with the intent of me joining the Inquisition,” Morna answered mildly. “The original mission of the Inquisition _was_ to reconcile mage and templar – or at least end the war. The Breach forced us to widen our scope before we could arrange the appropriate legal warrants and assurances.”

            Ten years of sparring in the Landsmeet brought the words and justifications easily to her lips.

            “You can say a lot of things about Morna but you can’t deny she’s competent,” Alistair murmured to his wife. “I would have been more surprised if she _hadn’t_ joined the Inquisition.”

            Anora’s lips tightened as she conceded the point with a nod.

            “As for Teyrn Cousland, I had the brief pleasure of meeting him on the Storm Coast,” Thom said. “If my opinion means anything, Your Majesties, that young man’s as competent as any nobleman I’ve ever met and he was definitely giving the orders.”

            “I’m inclined to agree,” Vivienne added serenely. “Rough around the edges but such things go far in Ferelden.”

            Anora’s mouth tightened again. “We aren’t Orlesians to gild our words while sliding a knife between someone’s ribs, First Enchanter.”

            “No, you’ll just scream something in Old Alamarri while gutting the poor bastard,” Thom observed dryly. “Both methods work, Your Majesties.”

            Alistair made a noise of amusement. “For a child-killing arsehole, Rainier, you’re surprisingly amusing.”

            Thom’s expression grew sombre. “I don’t know why I’m the only one who can close the Breach, Your Majesty, but I know what I am.”

            “You’re the only one who can save us.” Alistair’s gaze was intent. “Three of the Grey Wardens who saved Ferelden during the Blight consisted of a man who’d been convicted of murder and sentenced to die on the gallows, a casteless dwarven woman who violated every sacred law of Orzammar in the most spectacularly public way possible, and another man who’d been saved from hanging for theft. The deaths of the Callier family were a tragedy and I can’t even imagine how someone could agree to kill children. But you have the chance to redeem yourself. Don’t piss it away.”

            “I expected Callier. I didn’t expect his wife and children,” Thom said softly. “Not that that’s an excuse.”

            “No, it isn’t.” Alistair shrugged. “Think on what I said, Herald of Andraste.”

            “We are prepared to grant the Inquisition conditional authority to act as pertaining to the threat of the Breach equal to the Grey Wardens as pertaining to the Blight,” Anora announced. “You may hold one fortress in Ferelden and collect a two percent tithe from those you have directly protected, in either goods or gold, subject to the laws and taxes of our kingdom.”

            “That is… generous, Your Majesty,” Thom finally said.

            “That’s just under half the tithe the Wardens receive,” Morna observed. “We will, of course, keep our camps close to the vicinity of the Breach as that is our primary concern at the moment.”

            “Of course,” Anora echoed ironically. “Now for the mages.”

            The Queen turned to Fiona, who hung her head in misery. “You have greatly abused our trust in you. We gave you shelter from the templars and you allowed yourselves to be indentured to a Tevinter magister with nefarious purpose who displaced the Arl of Redcliffe and many of his people. Ferelden’s shelter and sanctuary of the mages is now revoked.”

            “I… understand.” Fiona looked utterly miserable.

            “The Inquisition has need of mages,” Thom rumbled. “Closing the Breach will require a lot of magical power and know-how.”

            “And what will be the terms of this arrangement?” Fiona asked sullenly.

            “Better than the ones Alexius gave you, I imagine. The Inquisition _is_ better than that, right?” Dorian asked pointedly.

            Thom sighed. “Indenture’s illegal in Ferelden if foreign parties are involved. Lady Morna made _that_ abundantly clear. The mages are welcome as allies but I intend to find and recruit as many templars as I can, preferably on a one-to-one basis. Everyone deserves the chance to prove themselves – and to guard themselves from potential threats.”

             Vivienne’s lips were pursed. “You intend to abolish the Circles?”

            “Maker, no. Mages need to be taught and there’s always a few rotten eggs. But tell someone they’re shit under your shoes enough and they’ll believe it. That can lead people to bad choices. I’ve seen mages from outside the Circle handle themselves competently around the Fade with no threat of possession, Madame Vivienne. Reckon wouldn’t hurt to give the Circle mages the chance to do the same.”

            “I’m inclined to disagree, but I’m not in charge around here,” Vivienne said in resignation.

            “Dorian, Felix, you two are welcome to come with us as allies,” Thom continued, eyeing the two Tevinters. “How much do you know on these Venatori?”

            “Not as much as I’d like,” Dorian replied. “I’d especially love to know who this ‘Elder One’ is, beyond a megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur.”

            Alexius sighed. “He has more power than you can comprehend, Dorian. Your struggle is futile.”

            “That’s what they told us during the Blight and we proved them wrong,” Morna said calmly.

            Felix took a great breath. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to return to Tevinter. I’m dying and the Imperium needs to be warned about the extent of the Venatori threat. It may surprise you, but Archon Radonis probably doesn’t like the idea of some cult overthrowing him and may be willing to cooperate with the Inquisition when it comes to a mutual enemy.”

            Thom nodded. “I’d appreciate that, Felix. You’re a good man.”

            “No. I’m a dying one.” The young mage sighed. “Dorian…”

            “I’ll miss you. You are the best of us.” Dorian clasped his friend’s forearm.

            Fiona sighed. “We will accept your offer, Herald. We have no choice.”

            “We never do,” Thom said cryptically.

…

Getting nearly a thousand mages and dependents to Haven was going to be a nightmare. Morna sat up late in her bedroom, trying to work out the logistics of it. They needed to expand from Haven almost immediately. Even with Solas’ spells working to grow apple trees rapidly, there just wasn’t the space in the valley without denuding the area of wildlife and other resources.

            _That fortress will help,_ she mused, running her mind through the abandoned fortresses of Ferelden. Caer Bronach, just outside of Crestwood, was a possibility. It was in Highever’s lands, which meant that Oren would likely deed it to the Inquisition in return for the appropriate yearly tithe.

            “My lady?”

            Thom’s soft knock on her half-open door ended her reverie. “Yes?” Morna asked, setting aside her notes.

            “Sorry I forgot to mention my meeting with your nephew. It’s been a hectic time lately.”

            “It’s alright. Oren sent me a raven telling me of it.” Morna rubbed the back of her neck. “What happened, Thom? You went from being clean and well-groomed to looking like you’d fought the Fifth Blight on your own.”

            In the uncertain light of her candles, his face flickered with emotion. “Dorian and I were catapulted forward a year in time. I saw the world that awaits us if we fail.”

            “Andraste’s ashen nether regions. No wonder you look like you were dragged facedown through the Deep Roads.” Morna rose from her seat. “What’s going to happen to Alexius?”

            “I handed him over to the Theirins. Felix’s given me enough to help Leliana and the Iron Bull find the Venatori and…” Thom shuddered. “I couldn’t take the chance he’d be able to pull off what he did, my lady.”

            “He’ll be executed then. Alistair’s a good enough templar to suppress his magic until he gets to the scaffold.” Morna sighed. And to think her biggest worry today had been dealing with an ex-lover and his wife who just happened to be her former overlords. Thom, from what he’d implied, saw the worst parts of the Void in what was a few moments to everyone else.

            “Nearly did him in myself, but figured there was no point. Alexius was broken by his actions, both now and in the future.”

            She nodded in agreement. “You’ve gotten on the good side of Alistair and Anora. That will help the Inquisition.”

            “Hope so.” Thom exhaled heavily. “It was bad, my lady. Worse than bad. What Alexius did to you, Vivienne and Varric-“

            “Will never happen,” she said firmly. “If disaster falls, it won’t be at his hand.”

            “I… suppose not.” The Herald regarded her bleakly. “I won’t get into detail, but Varric and Vivienne were the first to die buying Dorian time to reverse the spell, and you were the last.”

            “Good. I always figured that if I had to die before my time, I’d go out fighting.” She folded her arms against the chill of the night. “If you need to talk-“

            “You died for me. Without hesitation.” Thom paused and added, “I know Howe had you tortured. The future you mentioned it.”

            It was Morna now releasing an explosive breath. “I was captured at the Arl of Denerim’s estate after murdering Rendon Howe. I surrendered to buy Anora, Dad, Wynne, Duncan and Brytta time to escape. Technically I was a traitor, so I was treated as such.”

            It had also been the beginning of the end between her and Alistair but that was none of Thom’s business.

            His face grew bleaker and she quickly spoke again to fill the painful silence. “I escaped within a half-day. Thank the Maker that most of the Fort Drakon guards were bloody idiots and the rest owed me some significant favours.”

            A broken left hand. Cuts and bruises. The brand put on the right hand of the elf-blood caught with illegal weapons (or so the Arls of Denerim decreed). All worth it to kill the bastard who’d started the civil war by killing her family.

            “You said Howe’s men made Alexius’ look like amateurs.” Thom’s tone and expression were now wooden.

            _So I was tortured in the bad future. Wonderful, glad I’m not going through_ that _again._ “Standard technique of someone undergoing interrogation. Piss them off, they kill you before you can reveal information. Everyone breaks. All you can do is muddy up the waters and hope you die before giving up the truth.”

            “You’re one of the bravest women I know.”

            “No, Thom.” Morna’s smile was sad. “I’m just too mean a bitch to roll over and die to please my ‘betters’ – or if I must die, I will make it a victory for myself, not for them.”

            “I can believe that.” Thom sighed and glanced away. “Get some sleep, my lady. We’ll need to ride ahead to warn Haven of the mages’ arrival.”

            Maker’s bloody breath, like she needed reminding. “Get some sleep, Thom. We need you to save us from the Elder One.”

            “No pressure.” Thom’s laugh was hollow and he left her to a long and sleepless night.


	13. Stepping Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, torture and fantastic racism.

 

“Herald, you’re back in good time. We have two hundred templars here, led by Ser Barris.”

            Thom nodded brusquely to Cullen as he dismounted Steadfast. “Good. Have them finding recruits. We have nearly a thousand mages on their way.”

            The commander’s eyes widened. “You’ve recruited the mages?”

            “It was more by accident. I’ll brief you and the others in an hour or so.”

            “I’ll have runners collect everyone.” Cullen nodded and went back to the military camp to organise everything.

            “That includes the Iron Bull!” Thom bellowed before leading his horse to the stables, followed by the others.

            “Nice to see you haven’t forgotten about me,” the aforementioned Qunari said, lounging in front of a tent with Krem going through a list by his side.

            “Hard to forget the eight-foot Qunari spy,” Thom countered dryly. One of Master Dennet’s apprentices took Steadfast and the others’ horses. Vivienne immediately headed for the stairs – no doubt to make plans – while Varric gave a friendly nod and took the other path to the tavern.

            “Mmm. Already forwarded a situation in Lydes to the Inquisition’s attention – one of those little Orlesian succession crises,” Bull reported. “If you can decide what to do, it would give you a duchy that owes you a favour.”

            Dorian leaned on his staff, studying Bull. “You’re working with the Ben-Hassrath, Thom?”

            “Better the agent we know than the one we don’t,” Thom told him. “After all, we have ourselves a Tevinter magister now too.”

            Dorian shook his head. “My father’s the magister. _I_ am an Altus.”

            “Old-blood Vint nobility dating back to their founding,” Bull rumbled. “Think I’ve heard rumours of an Altus in white who’s managed to piss off half the Imperium.”

            The mage bowed floridly. “Dorian Pavus at your service, the Iron Bull. I _do_ hope you’re not going to bind me in chains.”

            Bull smirked. “I buy people dinner first before chaining them.”

            “I hope you let me eat it before you stitch my lips shut.”

            Thom looked between the two. What was going on?

            “Amongst the Qunari, mages are called ‘Saarebas’ – dangerous thing – and are chained, masked and have their mouths sewn shut,” Morna murmured. “It was one of the things I didn’t agree with. Sten and I had a number of arguments about it.”

            “It’s not something I like to discuss,” Bull agreed with a grimace. “Not my worry unless I’m facing demons.”

            “The worst you’ll have to deal with around Dorian is walking corpses,” Thom finally said. “And he saves the necromancy for people stupid enough to try and kill us.”

            Bull grimaced again and nodded. “Fine, boss. Can I join you on the way to the Chantry? We need to talk.”

            “I’ll go warn Threnn to expect a horde of mages,” Morna said quickly. “Then I might contemplate alcoholism as a life choice as a means to cope with the logistics nightmare.”

            “I’ll join you,” Dorian said brightly. “I could use a drink myself.”

            “Be at the Chantry in the hour. We need to figure out how to tackle that damn Breach.” Thom nodded to the elf-blood and the mage before turning to Bull.

            His feelings towards Morna were complicated. She died for him in the future. She downplayed the fact she’d been tortured during the Blight. He flinched whenever he remembered the ravaged ruin she could become in the future.

            She called him Thom when they were speaking after the events at Redcliffe.

            Pulling his thoughts from the woman, he looked up at Bull. “What did you want to talk about?”

            “The Inquisition as a whole.” Bull’s expression was grim. “Who leads it?”

            Thom sighed. “At the moment, it’s a committee.”

            “Committees don’t win wars and at the moment, you’re in a war.”

            “I know.” Thom raked a hand through greasy hair. So much for a wash before talking to the others.

            “Amongst the Qun, the leaders aren’t chosen from the best and brightest. They’re chosen from those who step up and do what must be done.” Bull sighed and rubbed the skin under his eyepatch. “I don’t fucking care what you’ve done in the past, boss. Worse people have joined the Qun and found purpose. Shit, when I was on Seheron, I did some pretty damn hard things to the Vints and the Tal-Vashoth.”

            “Tal-Vashoth?” Thom’s feelings about the Tevinters was nearly as complex as those about Morna.

            “Qunari who reject their places under the Qun. The most disciplined become mercenaries for hire, known for their brutality and efficiency. The worst become feral beasts who think only of their selfish needs, animals who rape and loot and murder until someone like me comes along to put them down.”

            In Bull’s words, Thom heard the flat tone of a man who’d been broken by his experiences. “The Tal-Vashoth on Seheron… Whatever you did that was as bad as what I did to the Callier family, it was there and to them. Wasn’t it?”

            “Yeah.” Bull’s smile was a pained thing. “After that, turned myself into the Ben-Hassrath to be… healed, I guess you could say. Down here, you’ll just kill the broken. The Ben-Hassrath way is harsh, but at least they try to fix people.”

            Thom really didn’t want to contemplate the implications of that statement. Maybe he could ask Leliana or Morna for a few more details. Probably Leliana. He didn’t want Morna to undergo painful memories of her own experiences again.

            “Guess it took a lot of guts to turn yourself in like that,” he finally said. “I ran and left my men to their fate.”

            “You did. But when it was time to face the executioner’s blade, you confessed. And now you’re dealing with it.” Bull patted Thom’s shoulder comfortingly. “You’re growing into your role.”

            “Thanks.” It was oddly comforting to hear that from the Qunari spy. “So, I guess the Ben-Hassrath patched you up and sent you down here.”

            “I’m both tough and a creative sort of person,” Bull observed wryly. “The perfect combination to send as an… observer… in the Orlesian civil war.”

            “And let me guess, the Qun hates waste.”

            “They do.” Bull rubbed the back of his neck as they walked through the village. “I’ll say this though, the Inquisition’s nearly as efficient. I expected this place to be like a Tal-Vashoth camp because of the overcrowding.”

            Thom winced. “It was bad for the first couple weeks. Then Lady Morna came along, pitched a fit and took over.”

            “The Arishok, who she knew as Sten, always said she was competent. He truly was disappointed when she chose the regency of Highever over bringing herself and Oren to the Qun despite seeing firsthand what happens when people trip over their dicks in a crisis.”

            Thom was getting a feel for how the Qunari thought. “Maybe she and Oren are in the roles they’re meant to be.”

            “Maybe.” Bull chuckled. “She’d make a good Ben-Hassrath in one of the researcher roles.”

            “If I were in the Qun, what would I be?” Thom asked curiously.

            “Antaam – the army. Definitely a Sten at least. You’ve got the brains, skills and balls for leadership roles.”

            “Thanks.” He was wary of stepping up and taking command because… what if his lust for power and wealth got the better of him again?

            “Welcome.” They were near the cook tent in front of the Chantry where two lay sisters gossiped. Much to Thom’s amusement, they were discussing-

            “I thanked him. Then he thanked me for the thanks. And I thanked him again. It was a very grateful night all around,” said one of the sisters.

            “You’re terrible,” the other laughed.

            “She’s a redhead,” Bull murmured. “I _like_ redheads.”

            “A fact for which I’m sure you were both grateful,” Thom observed blandly, unable to resist himself.

            Bull laughed. “I _like_ you, boss.”

            “Not like you do redheads, I hope. You’re not my type.”

            The Qunari snickered. “Let me guess: your type is small, pretty and blonde?”

            Thom felt his cheeks heat and refused to dignify that comment with an answer. “We should get to that debriefing,” he said instead.

            Bull’s laughter followed him into the Chantry.

…

Once Thom had completed his report, the advisors fell to bickering, the other members of the inner circle adding their own acerbic comments. Morna chose to stay out of it because there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t add fuel to the fire. Instead, she studied the Herald, who was visibly frustrated at the inability of the advisors to agree on how the Breach should be dealt with.

            Finally, Thom stood up and bellowed, “Enough!”

            Everyone fell silent, giving him glances or glares as suited their nature.

            “Solas, you’re our resident Fade expert and the only who has extensively studied that mark on my fucking hand. Your verdict?”

            The elf took a deep breath and released it slowly. “The fact remains that we have more mages than templars. If their power is channelled through the mark, you will have the strength to close the Breach.”

            Dorian stirred. “Raw power won’t cut it. Thom’s _not_ a mage. The easiest way to describe what has happened to him is that the artefact which left its mark on him – literally – opened a channel between him and the Breach. Mages in Tevinter have tried to make the non-mages able to touch the Fade before. Sooner or later, the power consumed them.”

            “The magic which gave the mark is not Tevinter.” Solas’ voice was firm. “Thom doesn’t lack the ability to close the Breach, it’s his strength that is in doubt.”

            “Rejuvenation spells?” Vivienne suggested. “Half the mages cast that on him while the other half channel power.”

            “Throw in a couple healing mages to make certain the energy doesn’t char him to death,” Dorian added.

            Thom sighed. “I’m not afraid to die.”

            “But closing the Breach is half the battle,” Cassandra said. “The other half will be hunting down this Elder One, who appears to be responsible.”

            “Agreed.” Solas clasped his hands before him. “There are simply not enough templars to suppress that level of magic. It must be the mages.”

            “He’s got a point,” Thom agreed. “However, I want Barris and his people around the mages to keep any magic from leaking out.”

            “Understood. Templars can use suppress stray magic with enough precision that a single caster can be left standing out of a group of twenty.” Cullen smiled slightly.

            “Good.” Thom sighed and scratched his bearded chin. Everyone from Redcliffe needed a good bath. “Cassandra, you’re leading the templars. Solas, you’re in charge of the mages. Leliana, post scouts around the temple and Haven. Josephine, Morna, I want you to start setting up an evacuation route into Ferelden. Sera, get your Red Jennies to raise hell for any Tevinters around – I don’t know who’s Venatori and who’s not, but I’d rather take no chances. Varric, scramble lyrium from your contacts. Vivienne, Dorian, I want you to get the mages too young or old to participate in the ritual to help the civilians. Bull, your soldiers will have the main duty of guarding the civilians.”

            Murmurs of assent echoed around the room and Morna sighed in relief. Thom didn’t like taking command for any number of reasons – but when he did, everyone fell into line. It was a pity that he hadn’t been found by someone like Duncan or even her father before he became the sort of man who could slaughter a family for personal gain.

            “Alright, dismissed. Unless the Elder One’s descending on us, I don’t want to be disturbed while I have myself a decent wash.” Thom nodded curtly and the others scattered to do their duties. She would have done the same but he stopped her with a gesture as she packed up her writing materials.

            “Have you heard anything from the Wardens you know?” he asked quietly.

            “No. And that’s worrying me.” Morna hugged herself. “I know my Dad’s on the Calling and he told Daveth he’d try to come by to say farewell… but Leliana’s sources tell me he hasn’t been seen since turning Jader over to his second. Brytta and Duncan would have sent messages by now if he’d reached Orzammar – she’s Warden-Commander there and he still has a lot of influence in the order.”

            Thom nodded grimly. “I know the Blight is the Wardens’ main concern but the Breach threatens all of us.”

            “Agreed. Daveth told me that Clarel was calling all Wardens in – he also told me that the Breach is doing something to the taint.”

            Thom’s blue-steel eyes narrowed. “This is the first time you mentioned this, my lady.”

            “I thought-“ Morna paused, did a quick tally of everything and realised that she hadn’t told anyone to the best of her recollection. “Shit. I thought I’d said something to someone. But I hadn’t.”

            “Write out a quick report and put it on Leliana’s desk. We don’t have the time to pursue it anyway.”

            “Understood.” Morna sighed, rubbing her eyes. She was exhausted and the work never ceased. She didn’t recall the Blight being this bad. “Maybe with the Breach closed, the Wardens won’t have anything to worry about.”

            “I hope so, my lady.” Thom stepped closer, his expression gentle. “Don’t forget to eat and rest.”

            “The same goes for you.” Morna sniffed delicately. “And don’t forget the bath.”

            His full lips quirked to the side. “You’re no bouquet of roses yourself at the moment, my lady.”

            This was the closest they’d ever really been aside from the time he’d put her on his horse as they rode from Redcliffe. Thankfully, Morna was getting some of her stamina back. It was still embarrassing to know she’d nearly fallen from her steed in exhaustion.

            The streaks of grey in his black hair and beard were a little wider, no doubt from the stress, and his forehead was creased with worry. Whatever he had done, he was trying to put the world back together.

            Morna shied away from the implications of her thoughts. “Scented soap is very, very low on the list of supplies, I’m afraid.”

            Even as Teyrna-Regent of Highever, she’d used country soap. Luxuries were few and far between in post-Blight Ferelden.

            “Maybe once the Breach’s dealt with, we can take another trip to Val Royeaux,” Thom mused. “We need to warn Orlais about the demon army that’s supposed to destroy them anyway.”

            “Maybe,” Morna agreed. “I… should probably go.”

            “Yeah, you should,” Thom said roughly. “My lady.”

            She nodded and brushed past him, the warmth of his body lingering longer than it should.


	14. The Attack on Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism.

 

Everything was ready for the attempt at closing the Breach. With news that Redcliffe was now free of bandits, rifts and mages, civilians began to drift back into Ferelden, all of them carrying word of the Inquisition’s ending of the threats. Corporal Vale sent word that the recruits from the Arling spoke of the Herald personally dealing with each and every danger, up to and including a Fereldan Frostback dragon that lurked in Lady Shayna’s Valley. Thom winced when he heard about that rumour – he didn’t want it known that he’d managed to take down a high dragon with the help of the entire Rebel Queen’s Ravine camp. But it looked like the Inquisition rank and file liked to talk.

            Tomorrow they’d go up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes – him, Solas, Cassandra plus the templars and mages. Barris and his people had fled Therinfal Redoubt after the Lord Seeker became paranoid and erratic. Two hundred out of roughly two thousand templars. Thom didn’t much fancy finding out what happened to the rest.

            Josephine and Morna had already released rations for a feast before the attempt and one for after. “We need something to boost Haven’s morale,” the Antivan woman said when asked. “And afterwards, we will wish to celebrate a victory.”

            So now Thom was sitting at a trestle table sandwiched between Cullen and Josephine, across from Leliana and Cassandra, nursing a mug of small ale. Intoxication, however tempting, wasn’t an option for tomorrow. He let the others laugh and talk, releasing their tension, while he brooded about something unrelated to the Breach.

            _Be honest, Rainier. That something’s Morna._

            Things had definitely softened between them since Val Royeaux. Morna’s voice rarely had an edge to it these days and after Redcliffe, she’d started calling him by his name. He no longer said ‘my lady’ sarcastically and was glad to have her along during his travels.

            Glancing down, he saw her frowning and shoving her plate of stew around with a fork, not eating. The disappearance of the Wardens worried her after Daveth’s warning and Thom wondered if her father had taken his Calling without a final farewell.

            “Leliana,” he said, leaning across the table. “Can you have some of your agents track the Wardens? With them disappearing-“

            “I know,” the bard interrupted gently. “I spoke to Daveth. If the Breach is having an effect on the taint, it is likely Warden-Commander Clarel is gathering them in Orlais to decide what to do. And if you close the Breach, the problem will be solved.”

            “I don’t think it’s that simple,” Josephine murmured. “Clarel has no command over Ferelden’s Wardens – Nathaniel Howe does – yet they too join their brethren in Orlais.”

            Leliana’s rust-hued eyebrow arched. “For Nate to cooperate with Clarel, it must be serious. Any word from Orzammar?”

            “Someone named Sigrun said that Warden-Commander Brosca and her husband went to investigate a series of earthquakes in Orzammar’s lyrium mines.”

            “Warden-Constable Sigrun. She’s what the Wardens call a ‘Dead Griffin’ – she was a Legionnaire of the Dead before becoming a Warden.” Leliana shifted on her bench. “A Crow who joins the Wardens is called a ‘Black Griffin’, a Qunari who joins is called-“

            “Vashoth,” the Bull interrupted as he reached over for a large chunk of meat. “There are those of the kossith – my kind – who are born outside of the Qun. They’re the only ones who become Wardens.”

            “Didn’t your current Arishok fight darkspawn in the Fifth Blight?” Thom asked.

            “He did. The Ariqun’s still trying to find a way to fit the Grey Wardens into the Qun – we know they’re necessary but you can’t exactly raise a kid to do what Wardens do.”

            “In Antiva, children of the Grey become Wardens or civilians who serve them,” Josephine noted. “We have an entire quarter of Antiva City dedicated to the order.”

            “Quarto del Grifone,” Morna said. “I’ve heard it’s very beautiful.”

            Josephine nodded. “When this is over, maybe you can come to Antiva and visit.”

            “Maybe.” Morna sighed and started to eat her stew.

            Thom looked into his tankard of small ale. “I’ll close the Breach. Then we’re going to find this Elder One and have words with him.”

            “Words backed by steel, I hope,” Cassandra observed grimly.

            “And mage fire, Seeker. I imagine Dorian isn’t too pleased with his countryman.”

            The handsome mage nodded. “That’s… something of an understatement. Whoever he is, he’s just replaying the same old tune Tevinter’s known for throughout Thedas.”

            “And you would play a different one?” Vivienne asked sceptically.

            Dorian’s grey eyes hardened. “There are those of us who want to make the Imperium what it should be, not what it is, and has been, for the past few thousand years. Magic is a Maker-given gift, First Enchanter – not a curse, not the work of demons, but a gift. And like any gift, it can be misused.”

            “Magic is dangerous. Just like fire is dangerous.”

            “So’s a man with a sword,” Thom said grimly. “Everyone deserves to prove themselves. We’ve seen what locking up mages has done. Let’s see what they can do with some freedom.”

            “Can we stop rehashing the whole mage thing?” Varric asked. “Tomorrow, we’re going up to close that big demon-shitting hole in the sky. That’s bound to draw some attention.”

            Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “Leliana, I’ll need you to post scouts-“

            “Already done, Cullen.” Leliana rose from her seat. “I will oversee the preparations for tomorrow.”

            The others took that as a sign to start dispersing. Morna shoved away her half-finished bowl of stew and vanished into the crowd before Thom could speak to her. She definitely had other things on her mind.

            Thom finished his ale and headed for his cabin. Tomorrow he would close the Breach, one way or another. Maybe then he could atone for the sins of his past.

…

“Focus your power past the Herald! Let him draw from your wills!”

            Solas orchestrated the mages as the templars helped smother the wild magic, the energy spiralling into Thom until he felt his hair rise. He raised his marked hand, feeling the now-familiar whip of energy connect it to the Breach, and let himself become a channel for the power. Pain seared through the hand and down his arm but Thom endured through it. He… would… not… fail!

            With a final surge of energy, the Breach exploded, driving Thom to his knees. His vision dazzled, he tried to catch his breath, wondering if they’d succeeded.

            When he looked up, he saw Cassandra there, holding out her hand to help him up with something that might be a smile. Thom took it gratefully and rose to his feet, the gathered mages and templars cheering.

            They had achieved a victory. The heavens were scarred but no longer roiling with energy.

            Solas smiled and saluted Thom. “It is done.”

            _It’s only just begun,_ Thom thought wearily as he leaned on Cassandra. If the Elder One had something to do with this, the closing of the Breach would only attract his attention, and Haven was indefensible.

            Maker have mercy on them all.

…

Minaeve and Seggrit were dancing as Adan laughed boisterously at the tale Varric was spinning, spilling his drink. Everyone was celebrating – Fereldan, Orlesian, mage, templar – but Thom sat apart, brooding over the ramifications of today’s actions. Redemption wouldn’t be so easily found. But a victory had been achieved.

            It was Morna who approached him. “Not in the mood to celebrate?” she asked quietly. “You won a victory today.”

            “Everyone’s acting like this is the end,” Thom pointed out with a sigh. “But it’s only the beginning.”

            “True,” Morna agreed. “But in a time like this, you need to seize the moments of joy you can. I learned that in the Blight.”

            “Dance with me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

            She opened her mouth to reply… and the alarm bell began to ring.

            Everyone scattered in panic as Cullen ran for the gates to Haven and shut them. Josephine was already there. “We’re under attack!” the commander announced as an endless force of torches crested the mountains.

            “By who?” the ambassador asked.

            Morna and Thom exchanged glances. “The Venatori,” she said.

            “Alright, get the civilians into the Chantry!” Thom bellowed. “Everyone who can fight, grab weapons.”

            Something hammered on the shut gates. Cullen yanked it open to reveal a lyrium-laced monstrosity that collapsed to reveal a rag-clad youth in a broad-brimmed hat. “The Elder One’s coming for you,” he warned. “I’m Cole. I came to warn you.”

            “The hell was that,” Thom breathed.

            “A red templar. They took in the red lyrium and became dead and dark and done.” Cole wasn’t quite all there from the looks of it.

            “I think we know what happened to Lord Seeker Lucius and most of the templars,” Morna said, face ashen.

            “Yes. You should close the gates now.” Cole strode in and Cullen slammed them shut.

            “Herald, we need you and a squad to hold the siege equipment. A few boulders will buy the civilians time to flee.”

            Thom nodded to the Commander. “Got it. Vivienne, Dorian, Cassandra, with me.”

            “Iron Bull, Solas, Varric, back me up,” Morna ordered. “There’s two catapults that need protecting.”

            Everyone looked at her and the scholar-rogue lifted her chin. “I know small squad tactics. I held the catapults at Fort Drakon against the archdemon.”

            “Let’s go!” Thom didn’t bother arguing. He just went for the nearest catapult.

            Several waves of red templars – Maker, those poor bastards – attacked and Thom soon discovered that it was Vivienne’s ice magic having the most effect on the monsters. Dorian switched from fire to necromancy, raising the corpses of their enemies to fight for them, and they managed to defeat the thirty or so creatures sent their way.

            “We’ve got this, sir, but another wave is heading for Lady Morna’s squad!” yelled one of the Inquisition soldiers.

            Thom was running before she finished the sentence, the others on his heels.

            When they arrived, the Iron Bull was fending off a vicious behemoth of a thing as Morna struggled to crank the catapult. Solas had frozen one red templar, Varric shattering him with a bolt, but they were clearly about to be overwhelmed. Thom roared to attract the behemoth and prepared himself for a tough battle.

            They defeated the behemoth but by the end of it, Bull was sorely injured. “Get to the Chantry,” Thom ordered.

            “On it, boss.” Bull was a soldier, he knew he was compromised and he knew he needed to get out of there before everyone was endangered trying to protect him.

            Thom put his hands to the crank, lending his strength to Morna’s, and they readied the catapult. Then it was fired and the resulting avalanche drowned most of the incoming templar army.

            “Got the bastards,” Varric said.

            He spoke too soon. Something swooped down – a rotting dragon – and destroyed the catapult with a single vicious breath. They all ducked or were knocked flat.

            “What… the hell… was that?” Thom gasped as he struggled to his feet.

            “An archdemon,” Morna breathed. “Maker’s bloody breath.”

            “We need to get to the Chantry,” Vivienne said harshly. “Let’s go!”

            Their path to the Chantry was obstructed by the people of Haven needing rescue. Thom spit the group into two, the forces covering both major paths to the Chantry, and by some miracle of Andraste everyone was saved.

            “Come in, come in, the Chantry will be your shelter!” Roderick, coughing with blood on his robes, ushered everyone in.

            “He tried to fight off a red templar. The blade cut deep. He is dying.” Cole appeared, helping Roderick keep his feet.

            “Charming boy.” Even dying, the Chancellor managed some of his typical sarcasm.

            Thom slammed the doors closed once Bull was inside, leaning against the thick oak planks. “Now what? There’s a fucking archdemon out there.”

            “We have no other escape,” Morna observed grimly. “That force would have rolled over the scouts and forward camps we set up.”

            “You’re… wrong.” Roderick smiled weakly. “There’s a path. A narrow one.”

            “What do you mean, Chancellor?” Thom asked urgently.

            “It was a whim or so I thought at the time. Who knows how the Maker moves us to His will?” Roderick coughed again. “I know the way.”

            “We’re going to need a distraction,” Cullen said grimly. “Herald, I hate to say this-“

            Thom nodded. “He wants me. I’ll make the bastard work for it. Bull, you’re in command of anyone who doesn’t stay with me.”

            “Understood, boss.” Bull was getting his wound bandaged by Mother Giselle.

            “Vivienne, you made those bastards hurt with your ice magic. Cassandra, I’ll need muscle. Solas, you’ve got some ice magic yourself.” Thom took a deep breath. “Let’s keep these bastards busy while everyone escapes.”

            “Understood,” the First Enchanter said coolly.

            Everyone else was filing out, following Roderick and Cole. Morna looked over her shoulder and said, “I was going to dance with you.”

            “I know, my lady.” Thom managed a hint of the roguish smile he might have once sent Morna’s way in a past life. “Save it for when we’re out of here.”

            “Maker watch over you, Thom.” She turned away and joined the crowd filing out.

            The Herald of Andraste took a deep breath. “Let’s give these bastards hell.”


	15. Keeping Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Done with uni so getting back into this story. Trigger warning for mentions of death and violence. Sorry it’s so short – it just seemed right to end it where I did.

 

The retreat from Haven would have been disorderly if Morna hadn’t immediately taken charge. Even so, it was still more ragged than she liked, the weakest survivors bundled onto the druffalo that remained and the dead left for the scavengers with little more than a muttered prayer to speed them. Amund and Tamar, who knew the Frostbacks, ranged ahead to find a safe place they could stop and count their losses. All the preparation in the world hadn’t prepared them for the reality of the Elder One and his forces.

            Two days after the attack, Vivienne, Solas and Cassandra found them… with no Thom. “He was lost in the avalanche,” the First Enchanter, a far cry from her usual elegant self, announced hoarsely.

            A wave of despair washed over the Inquisition and threatened to drown them. Morna felt it carry her up and dash her down into the rocks but some stubborn instinct made her struggle against the surge.

            “Until I find his corpse, I won’t believe Thom Rainier’s dead.”

            Two days later, they found a place to camp. As the survivors tended to what they could, the Inner Circle began to argue amongst themselves as they ever did, laying blame and doubt and rage upon everyone. Morna, not trusting her temper, ordered scouts to comb the surrounding region for any sign of Venatori, survivors of Haven and Thom himself. Mother Giselle took over the running of the refugee camp. Ellendra and Cole took care of the dying Roderick, whose wound was poisoned yet he refused the mercy-strike.

            It was three days after that the scouts found Thom – Cassandra and Cullen carried him in. He was frostbitten and gaunt, barely conscious and covered in blood. But he was alive.

            Ellendra immediately abandoned Roderick to tend to the Herald. Rumours of Andraste’s further miraculous intervention on Thom’s behalf swept through the camp like wildfire. Confessions of losing faith in the Maker bombarded the clerics while Tamar made much of the fact that she and Morna didn’t do so. The Reaver was almost as dangerous an ally as she was an enemy.

            Leliana, Cullen and Josephine still argued with Cassandra putting her two coins in. The problem was that they had no set destination in mind, no one to take command and haul them into line by the scruff of their necks. Morna and Giselle had their hands full with the camp while the Iron Bull and his lieutenant Krem took over the military side of things. Dorian and Vivienne were reluctantly working together to keep the mages from fleeing while Barris – supported by Varric – made certain the templars stayed. Sera was… Sera. Her pranks kept the children occupied, if nothing else.

            Solas stood apart, staring into the distance, and Morna wondered what he saw in the Fade.

            Four days later, Thom awoke. It was Morna’s turn to watch over him, mug of thin mutton broth in her hands, and when she saw the bleary blued-steel eyes open the surge of relief nearly floored her.

            “They’re fighting,” he groaned in weary disgust, struggling to sit up. “I better-“

            “Doubt turned to blame while you were gone,” Morna interrupted quietly. “Your voice will just add fuel to the fire.”

            Tamar, who’d stood guard over the tent, stuck her head inside. “You are awake, Chosen of Andraste,” she simply stated. “Good. The Elder One is annoying me.”

            “Can you go get Adan?” Morna asked the Reaver. “This is work for an alchemist, not a healer.”

            “Of course. The Chosen of Andraste needs to take command before your Inquisition tears itself apart.” Tamar nodded and removed herself.

            “Maker’s balls,” Thom groaned as Morna helped him sit up. “How bad is it?”

            “Well, we saw our base get decimated by something that may or may not be an archdemon commanded by something that looks like a darkspawn. We lost you in an avalanche… and you came back.” Morna kept her voice light as she had so many times during the Blight. “Everyone’s a little… shaken… right now.”

            “They’re going to _love_ what else I’ve got to tell them,” Thom said sourly. “That ‘darkspawn’… called himself Corypheus. Said he was one of the original magisters who broke into the Golden City. Apparently it was already black when he got there.”

            “Lovely,” Morna observed dryly. “Explains the connection between the Breach and the taint.”

            “So it does, my lady, so it does.” Thom drank some of the lukewarm broth with a grimace. “The Wardens-“

            “Soon as we have somewhere for Leliana’s crows, I’ll send messages to Clarel, Nate and Stroud in the Free Marches,” Morna promised.

            “Did the others make it?”

            “They did. We lost our scouts and a third of the civilians. The mages and templars are relatively intact though.”

            “Maker rest their souls.” Thom wrapped his large hands around hers on the mug of broth. “My lady, I am… glad you came through this.”

            “I’m glad you’re here with us,” Morna admitted. “And not just because we need those bloody rifts closed.”

            Thom closed his eyes. “My lady, do you think… I’m chosen by Andraste?”

            She could hear the doubt in his voice. Even when he spoke of his own unworthiness, Thom had never doubted that there’d been a purpose in his survival. But now…

            “I’m not a theologian,” she said quietly. “But during the Blight I saw that the best people to end the crisis survived and… if not thrived, then certainly succeeded in their tasks. Thom, I know you’re scared of reverting to your old ways if you take command again. But you’re the only person who can unite the Inquisition. You know war. You can charm Orlesian and Fereldan alike. You’re genuinely penitent. I don’t know if Andraste took a direct hand in saving you from the Fade, but I damned well believe that She made certain the one who could save us all survived. The Maker gives us the tools but it’s up to us how we use them.”

            Thom’s hands tightened on her own. “When I was a captain in the Orlesian army, I surrounded myself with those who wouldn’t question my authority. The rank and file adored me because I saw to it they were fed and paid on time, their widows got the pensions they deserved, and because I was as common as they. It was how I built up a force that would do anything I ordered them to. And all because I wanted that knighthood and power and wealth and glory.”

            “And now?”

            “I’m being handed everything I ever wanted on a platter, my lady. Glory. Power. Adoration. Minions who’ll do whatever I want-“

            “Advisors who aren’t shy about telling you where you’re going wrong,” Morna interrupted. “Thom Rainier, I swear by the Maker and His Bride that if you ever misuse the power that being the Herald of Andraste has given you, I’ll cut your fucking throat myself.”

            “You have no idea how much that reassures me,” Thom told her with all sincerity.

            Tamar arrived with Mother Giselle in tow. “Adan was busy tending to the others so I had to bring the Chantry biddy with me.”

            “I have some knowledge of medicine,” Giselle observed calmly. “And I suspect the Herald needs some spiritual guidance.”

            Tamar’s snort said plenty about her opinion of Giselle’s guidance.

            Thom released Morna’s hands hastily. “You better go tell everyone else I’m awake, my lady.”

            “I will. Maybe it will help them get their shit together.” Morna couldn’t help but release some of the anger and frustration she’d been feeling through asperity. “I’ll come back later.”

            “Please do.” His eyes were warm and she glanced away, unable to meet them at the moment.

            It was enough to know the Herald was returned to them and their hope rekindled.


	16. The Choosing of the Leader

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism. As inspirational as Mother Giselle is, I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who can kick Thom’s arse into motion, so it’s a bit AU here.

 

Thom sat up with a groan as Morna’s voice lifted, harsh with frustration, over the more dulcet tones of Josephine and Leliana. “-Before we go anywhere, we need a bloody plan!” the Fereldan argued. “We need a bloody location.”

            “If you have one, we’d love to hear it,” Cassandra observed waspishly.

            “I can only think of Caer Bronach outside of Crestwood from the top of my head,” Morna said with a sigh. “Bandits have taken over the place and Oren doesn’t have the manpower to clear it. Even after Haven, we do.”

            “Not a bad idea if we have no other choice,” Cullen said. “But we need somewhere in the Frostbacks or at least its foothills. Dorian told us about the demonic invasion that brought down the Orlesian Empire in the bad future he and the Herald experienced. Your nephew’s a fine man and great supporter of the Inquisition, Morna, but he and Caer Bronach are too deep into Ferelden for neutrality.”

            “He’s right, I’m sad to say,” Josephine agreed mournfully. “I think we should adjourn this meeting. The Herald is alive and awake, so we haven’t lost hope yet.”

            “We’re running out of supplies,” Morna pointed out. “We need to make a decision and soon.”

            “The Maker returned the Herald to us. He will provide,” Cassandra said piously.

            “The Maker only helps those who help themselves and at the moment,” Morna began hotly, only to be hushed by Leliana.

            “Maker’s balls,” Thom groaned, forgetting a Revered Mother was in the tent with him. “It’s worse than I feared. I need to go out and-“

            “You will inflame the situation.” Giselle’s voice was gentle yet firm. “You need to rest, Herald. Your injuries were grave.”

            “I can rest when I’m dead,” Thom said flatly. “We’re on the verge of tearing apart and if that happens, Corypheus wins.”

            “He’s got a point, priestess.” That was the Iron Bull, who could move unnervingly quiet for someone about eight feet tall with horns that had the same span as the height of an adult dwarf. “They need to see their Herald up and about.”

            Thom immediately held his arm out to the Qunari. “Help me up?”

            Bull did so – he was strong enough to lift an ox without breaking a sweat – and Thom was glad he wore breeches. Mother Giselle, expression disapproving, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

            “I will gather the faithful,” she said stiffly as she stalked out.

            “Good to see you made it, boss,” Bull rumbled. “We’re having a bit of a crisis here.”

            “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Thom observed sarcastically.

            “You _have_ been unconscious for the past few days…” Bull smirked weakly. “I’ve got some of the Chargers looking for somewhere to make a base. Problem is most of the best spots around here belong to the Avvar.”

            “And while _most_ of the Avvar will be civil to us because Amund’s an ally, I wager they won’t let us take somewhere over.”

            “Probably not.” Bull guided him outside into the bracingly cold air. Giselle had gathered everyone together and was leading them in an old hymn – ‘The Dawn Will Come’. Despite the shattering of his faith and purpose, the deep throb of the Mark on his hand, Thom found himself mouthing the words alongside the others. Only Solas, who was definitely not Andrastean, stood aside with an opaque expression on his face.

            _I need to talk to him about Corypheus and the Mark,_ Thom realised. _He knows more about the Fade than anyone else here._

When the first of the Inquisition saw him, they began to kneel while singing. Soon, almost everyone was on their knees and even the Inner Circle was bowing or curtseying with grave grace.

            “Sometimes the leader chooses to take command and other times the leader’s chosen to do so,” Bull observed quietly. “Time to step up, boss.”

            Thom raised his hand and let it blaze emerald. “I won’t lie to you. This Mark isn’t a gift of Andraste but instead a curse from one of the very Magisters who broke open the gates of the Golden City and turned it black. His name’s Corypheus and he’s an evil bastard who thinks that breaking open the sky will return Tevinter to its so-called ‘glory’. He considers himself a god, the equal of the Maker.”

            “There is no god but the Maker,” someone quoted from the crowd. “We will prevail!”

            “We will. Because we’ve got people from every walk of life and many nations in our ranks. Corypheus couldn’t take this Mark from me and he didn’t manage to kill me. That means I can turn his curse against him as a weapon.”

            He looked at the Inner Circle. “I was once a prideful, greedy, lascivious bastard little better than a mercenary. I don’t need adoration. I don’t need worship. But I damned well need good advisors who will haul me up when I need it.”

            “Even Andraste listened to her advisors, Herald,” Cassandra assured him. “We will support you.”

            Not quite what Thom wanted but he could talk to the advisors later. He lowered his hand. “Tomorrow, we’ll determine our course of action. But tonight, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest. It’s colder than a despair demon’s heart out here.”

            Several people laughed or gasped and the reverent mood was broken, thank the Maker. Thom let Bull lead him back to the tent and gratefully collapsed on his fur pallet. His last thought before unconsciousness was where in blazes were they going to go.

…

“Thom.”

            The Herald of Andraste sat up, heart pounding, and realised that he was back in Haven. “What-?”

            “Apologies.” Solas rose from the seat next to his bed. “We needed to have a private discussion and you dream with a focus I’ve rarely seen.”

            Thom took some deep breaths. Alright, he was in the Fade. And he’d wanted to talk to Solas privately. “The Mark comes from some orb Corypheus had-“

            “I know. It is elven magic dating back to the time of Arlathan.” Solas’ expression was grave.

             “Ah shit. When word gets out, there’s gonna be that one arsehole who blames the elves.” Thom raked a hand through his greasy hair. “I’ll give Morna, Leliana and Josephine a heads up. They should be able to quash most of the trouble.”

            “That would be appreciated.” Solas sighed and studied his long, fine-boned hands. For a ragged apostate, he carried himself with the kind of unconscious authority that screamed ‘noble’ to Thom. “And thank you. It is rare to meet a human with an open mind.”

            Thom shrugged. “I don’t always get you, Solas, but you aren’t an abomination and what you say about spirits makes sense.”

            “I _am_ the Fade expert around here,” Solas observed with a hint of conscious arrogance. “And as such, I have a solution to the problem of where to put the Inquisition.”

            “Praise the… what are the elven gods called? The Evanuris?”

            Solas’ gaze grew bleak. “The Evanuris are the last entities you should praise, Thom. One day, I might tell you why.”

            That was… interesting. “Fair enough. So, where’s this place and does it have a name?”

            Solas smiled. “It’s on the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks overlooking Emprise du Lion and its name is… Skyhold.”


End file.
